Silence
by bahari
Summary: Sequel to Asylum-Light is out of the asylum and slowly, with L's help, he's healing. But there are forces that neither of them can control out there-and those echoes from the past are beginning to haunt them both. LxLight
1. Light

**Part 01 – Light**

**Edited and Reposted as of 08.19.09**

**A/N: Hello all you lucky people! I'm back, and more quickly than usual! All your glorious reviews inspired me to post this sequel much faster than I'd been planning on. So, without further ado, I give you:

* * *

**_silence:_

_absence of any sound or noise; stillness._

_absence or omission of mention, comment, or expressed concern._

_the state of being forgotten; oblivion._

_concealment; secrecy._

* * *

Light knows that he cannot expect himself to remain unchanged after three years of attempts and failures at recovering from his time in the asylum. He knows that he is nothing like he used to be—he knows that he is Light Yagami in name only, because Light Yagami died somewhere in Crowley's cells. Or, he thinks, perhaps he died even before that, when he'd picked up a thin black notebook and had decided to change the world—not because he was noble, or brave, or concerned. No, Light Yagami had just been bored.

And now, he's dead.

Light knows also that he can never reclaim what he used to be, either the young, painfully idealistic Kira he'd been at 18, or the shell of an animal he'd been three years ago.

He knows this, but still . . . Still, he tries. He is not certain, even now, what it is he is striving for. He knows only that there had been a time before the haze of pain that still fogs his view into the past during which he'd been happy. And he'll be damned if there's no longer a chance for him.

"_Can I ask a question?"_

"_Why not?"_

"_Why are you laughing?"_

"_Because everything's so damn funny."_

Light sighs softly, irritably, as he presses his hand to his temple in an effort to relieve the dull pain of his headache.

L glances over at him, curiously, but he says nothing, which Light is grateful for—L stopped babying him months ago, after Light snapped at him that he would take care of his own damn self and L could just go fuck himself if he didn't like it.

Light knows that his comment didn't make much sense. He'd known it then, too. It didn't matter. It got his point across; his point being, of course, that while yes, thinking about the five years spent in Crowley's Institute wasn't exactly fun for him, he could handle it.

And truly, he really did seem to be handling it. Not without extensive medication of course—and at this thought, Light grimaces again. He doesn't appreciate the idea of living on pills for the rest of his life. They've tried reducing his dosage, but once they'd dropped below a certain percentage, Light's episodes came back full force. The damage from _that _little experiment had lasted weeks.

Dr. Toledano, Light's almost-psychiatrist (psychiatrist because he was the one who prescribed pills, almost because Light never actually talked to him), told L that trying to take Light off his medication so close to the incident was quite dangerous.

_The incident_. That's what they've mostly taken to calling it, partly because it's kinder to Light, and partly because it's quicker than saying _hey, remember that time you convicted me of thousands of murders, which I was completely guilty of, and I was sent to this insane asylum where I was tortured to insanity and then you broke me out and I was still fucking crazy?_ Light's grimace twitches into something of a quiet smile at that thought. He's more or less stopped his laughter—that breathless, almost-sobbing that disturbed L so greatly. But his private smiles—at jokes that he knows L would not find amusing—have remained, and he knows that they kind of . . . creep L out.

Which is amusing, in and of itself, since L was always the sort of creepy one before.

Light gives up all pretense of working and stares out the window as his thoughts continue to spiral in a strange, twisted, and altogether amusing sort of dance. They've been brought into order for the most part, and he can make conversation, generally, if he's not having an episode or a particularly bad day, but . . .

Just because he's learned to suppress his thoughts and emotions doesn't mean they're not there.

Again, his mind returns to that briefest moment of sanity he'd had in the hospital when he'd first woken up. He had been disoriented and scared halfway to hell, sure, but that was better than this perpetual state of denying the fact that, given half a chance, he'd either give up completely, just stop taking medicine and let himself drift away, or he'd find a way to get revenge.

Maybe both.

And then there are the times when he's actually _sorry_ for everything he's done, and that's almost worse than the dark amusement or anger or apathy or aggression and any other words starting with the letter 'a' that he can think of. Some days, all he can feel is _guilt_, pressing heavy on his chest. It feels as though it takes an enormous amount of energy just to fill his lungs with air. And the feeling, deep in the pit of his stomach and all through his torso, an almost-sick, horrible feeling that immobilizes him and traps him until he feels like he'll never get out and he doesn't deserve to anyway.

And the worst part—as though any of this weren't horrible enough—is how L reacts.

Light can see it, he can tell, he's not stupid. On those days, when L will try to get him out of bed and he'll just curl tighter around himself, eyes wide open and one trembling hand covering his mouth, L will hesitate. He pauses, trying to decide what to do. Because he knows that what Light is feeling is guilt, is shame, is undiluted, uncensored _anguish_ over his past actions. And L, the person, wants to help his friend; L, the letter, thinks that Light deserves it.

On those days, Light generally agrees with L the letter.

Most of the time, though, perhaps eighty percent of the time, Light is fine.

What a strange word, he thinks. Fine. When he says it, _fine_ actually means _I'm not about to go into the bathroom and slice my arms open this very moment. Check back later. _When L says it, asks if he's _fine_, L is actually asking _is this one of those days when you're going to be having flashbacks or guilt trips or tantrums?_ And when L says he's doing _fine_, that means that he is no better or worse than his general antisocial, paranoid, irritating self.

Light thinks that thus far, his train of thought has been quite venomous towards L. It's one of _those_ days, then. Most of the time, he just doesn't think about the fact that he doesn't seem to be able to exist minus L's presence. Sure, he can leave the room or go on walks alone. But he always knows where L is, and that is just inside the other room, just inside the house.

Light supposes that the trouble is that he _trusts_ L, despite the fact that he absolutely _shattered_ the promise he made to give Light the death penalty. Light's taken a fair few psychology courses, and he knows that his dependence on L is due to the fact that he's had romantic inclinations in the past towards him, and that L miraculously appeared and tore him away from Crowley and his insanity.

Light frowns slightly when he thinks about Crowley. He asked L about him, once. He'd wanted to know what had happened to him.

"_Watari shot him,"_ L had said. Light had accepted the answer and L hadn't continued.

Watari shot him.

Shouldn't shot be replaced with killed? Or the sentence could be amended to say, _Watari shot _and _killed him_.

Unless he wasn't dead. Which would fucking _suck_, because Light has only been able to function and _exist_ based on the assumption that there was no possibility that he would be put through that torture again.

His breath quickens when he thinks of the possibility that Crowley is alive, but he quickly forces himself to relax. Crowley is dead. If he weren't, L would be focused on capturing him. And either way, there was no way he could find them.

Light takes a deep breath and dispels that train of thought entirely.

Which brings him back to the fact that today was one of _those _days, the kind where it was going to bother him that L was there. The kind of day where anything L said or did would piss him off. Light considers trying to prevent this attitude, but it will pass soon enough, and he's always been such an independent individual . . . can't he have some days where he gets to feel cheated because his existence—his almost-happiness—is tied to the person who imprisoned him? The person who has generally caused him a great deal of agony, inadvertently or not?

Which brings him back to the fact that he has a headache and it's really actually quite irritating, because with every heartbeat the ache throbs and feels a little worse, and it's very hard to concentrate on his work.

His work isn't actually work. Well, it is for him, but it's not the same as the cold case that L is currently absorbed in.

He's studying people.

This was actually one of Light's ideas. He never goes out into society for obvious reasons—he could have an episode or a seizure, could become unnecessarily violent, or however unlikely it may be, he might be seen by someone who witnessed his trial.

But when someone like Matt or Mello came over, though they weren't the most normal of individuals, Light found himself fascinated by their interaction with each other and L, compared to with him.

He was unnerving, he knew. His eyes, which were constantly shadowed and narrow and suspicious, or occasionally disturbingly blank, threw people off.

But it was more than that. Five years was a long time to have little to no interaction with anyone besides his tormentors. And five years of torture had certainly thrown him off a bit. So yes, he now weirded people out. Or scared the shit out of them. Whichever.

Most of the time, Light doesn't think about this. He's constantly with L, who is a freak anyway, so they get along fairly well. Light is even generally comfortable with Watari, who is a constant and shadowed presence in his life.

But with other people—L's correspondents, colleagues, etc—Light is uneasy and awkward with. Even speaking electronically or over the telephone. And face-to-face encounters are even worse.

The problem lay in the fact that Light had simply grown unaccustomed to societal norms. Little things that everyone took for granted—little nuances of expression or speech patterns or gestures—were now lost to Light. It didn't help that he was now generally dealing with English and American culture, which was wholly different from Japanese. Not that he was much better with Japanese rules of etiquette anymore either.

Once Light had narrowed his problem down to this, finding a solution had seemed simple enough. If he were unused to common expressions and casual conversation, he would just have to study and practice.

He requested videos after that, anything he could get his hands on. Hollywood films, security and traffic camera footage, television shows, or anything else.

At first, studying people on film was tedious and difficult. Light was quickly bored, and everything happened so quickly that he had initially despaired of ever picking up the behavior that he had once found so simple to imitate.

At L's suggestion, he had started writing down what he didn't understand, hadn't caught, and then he'd go back and replay and play in slow motion and pause and analyze until he understood the gesture or formality or speech pattern.

And slowly, Light began integrating what he had learned—from expressions to speaking to walking—into his own behavior. He had felt awkward and stupid at first, but as he practiced, it seemed that his body and mind remembered how he used to behave—how he used to speak, manipulate, twist, smile, and _lie_.

L was both pleased and wary of this new development. Generally, Light didn't turn his newfound skills on L, and even when he did, they were raw and unpracticed enough that he never got away with it. But just the knowledge that Light was once more learning to deceive made L a little mistrustful.

They had only been out in public twice together. Each of those times, it had just been for a quick cup of coffee, and then they'd only walked into a café and ordered before taking the cups back to their car. Light hadn't spoken to anyone, not even L, when they were waiting for their order. But he had watched, carefully, his eyes flicking from person to person, observing them intently for a second or two before he'd moved on.

Light himself was rather pleased when he'd been able to go out in public. He knew that it wasn't exactly a success; people had stared at his blank eyes, his uncomfortable posture, his jerky gestures, and his scarred hands. Basically everything about him was wrong.

But the point was, he now _knew_ what he was doing wrong. Before, he'd been clueless.

Now, though, as Light glances back at a video he's already watched perhaps thirty times, he is easily able to identify posture and expression and what they mean. He can tell what people are thinking and saying without even hearing the words they speak.

It is a skill he'd had before. Hell, he'd never even thought of it as a skill. It was inherent. Unpracticed. Before all this . . . before all of it, Light never had to stop and consider what a gesture or a tone could mean. But that was in his past life.

Light returns to looking out the window, his hand still pressed to his head. The headache is growing steadily worse, and he knows that it won't be long before he'll have to down a thousand milligrams of ibuprofen to keep it from tormenting him further. He decides to cut it off before it develops into a full-blown migraine.

He stands, noticing how L's eyes follow him as he walks out of the room and into the kitchen. He grabs the bottle of Advil and gets a cup of water, and then looks at the bottle for a moment. This is not nearly as difficult for him as it used to be, but his motor skills have declined and opening a childproof cap is quite a process. With trembling hands, he manages to summon the strength and coordination to pop it open, and he feels a vague sense of satisfaction as he pours the four pills out into his palm.

And then he frowns. How low Light Yagami has fallen—he's pleased over being able to open a bottle of pills all by himself. And on the first try, too!

He pushes away the thoughts, though they refuse to be completely silenced, and swallows the pills.

His mouth tastes bitter.

"Headache?" L asks when he returns to the room, and Light nods, briefly.

"Yeah," he says, remembering that a curt and unfriendly nod without any eye contact or explanation is not social and not normal. "I took some Advil."

L nods shortly before turning back to his own computer. Light gives L's back a sparing smile. L has no social skills, and it doesn't bother him one bit. Light doubts that he'll ever learn either. Light has spent months studying and practicing, and all he has to show for it are delayed reactions that are correct but too late to be effective.

Light knows that what he needs is a sort of immersion program. Much like how when one tries to learn a language, the fastest way is to go to the country and force oneself to communicate. Light knows that if he continues practicing in here, without any positive or negative reinforcement, he'll never really learn.

And he doesn't know why it's so important to him. Truly, it shouldn't be. It's not as though he's going to have to be social all of a sudden. That part of his life is gone.

But . . . he feels rather incomplete. Although he enjoys L's company, and most of the time, it's enough, Light sometimes grows frustrated at the utter lack of connections he has. At his own inability to even form such connections, if L would ever allow it.

Being social—fooling everyone who thought he was so brilliant and kind—used to fill him with a dark sense of accomplishment. Telling a successful lie—something he hasn't been able or allowed to do in _years _now—used to be a part of his everyday routine. He used to derive such childish enjoyment out of his own superiority and ability to manipulate.

Of course, Light has been greatly humbled by his stay in Crowley's Institute. He no longer has any delusions of saving the world, of saving anyone, of saving himself. He no longer believes that he's so much better than anyone around him—although Crowley isn't entirely to blame for that.

And when Light thinks of that—of him—he stiffens slightly. B is . . . he is at the same time everything and nothing like L. The spare, unsatisfying conversations he'd had with L's deranged successor helped shape his own insanity.

In his own way, B was brilliant. He'd told Light a little about his crimes, and Light had read further about him once he was with L. But even the way he spoke, and the way he moved belied an intelligence—a twisted intelligence—that Light couldn't ignore.

Although he generally tries to avoid thinking about B, Light now eases into memories of him.

"_What the hell is so funny?"_

"_Everything. It's just nobody sees."_

"_Nobody sees _what_?" _

B was truly insane—not the kind of crazy Light had become, the kind that could be treated with medication and an anchor. No. Light had enjoyed killing people, he had always denied it, denied it, denied it, and on the rare occasion he couldn't deny it, he'd made excuses for it. B, on the other hand, had enjoyed it and then relished in it afterwards.

"_Why did you kill them?"_

"_Why did _you _kill them?"_

"_I've made my excuses. What are yours?" _

"_I don't have any. I don't need any."_

"_Not excuses, then. Reasons."_

"_I don't have any. I don't need any. I killed them because I could, because I enjoyed it." _

Back then, Light, who had still been a bit glassy-eyed and deluded from his time as Kira and his trial, had condemned B and had refused to consider his words. Now, they seem like the only things that make sense sometimes.

"_Nobody sees the inherent humor in every situation. Anything can be funny, with the right spin."_

"_Even death? Even pain?"_

"_Especially death and especially pain."_

B's hobby was killing, like other people enjoyed cooking or swimming. He killed because he liked it, and he failed to understand why anyone should have a problem with it.

"_They're going to die anyway."_

"_What?"_

"_The people I kill. My so-called victims. They're going to die anyway."_

"_But you don't know when; they could—"_

"_Yes. I do."_

"_You do what?" _

"_I know when they're going to die. You of all people should understand the concept of lifespans, Kira. Since you don't have one." _

Light doesn't know how B has shinigami eyes—and he'd never asked about it. B was right, though: he did understand the concept of lifespans, and finally B began to make sense to him. If they were going to die anyway, well, why _shouldn't _B have a little pleasure in it? As long as he didn't shorten their lifespan, as long as they died right when they should?

Of course, this reasoning is twisted beyond words, and Light himself would never follow it. But for someone like B, who seems almost timeless in his utter insanity, in his brilliance . . . well, Light is willing to make an exception.

"It's probably time we ate something." L's voice startles him out of his thoughts, and Light turns to face him.

Light hasn't told L much about what he knows of B. He mentioned him that once, about three months ago, but L had acted so damn hostile he hadn't brought up the subject again. And Light certainly didn't feel like mentioning the fact that when he thought about what B had said—_I like the feeling of it. The blood on my hands and in my mouth._—he found that he absolutely agreed. Light shivers slightly at that, briefly remembering tearing at his own flesh, desperate for feeling, for _taste_ . . .

And he doesn't exactly feel like bringing up anything else about B, either. If L hasn't discovered any of it . . . well, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Probably.

Light flexes his fingers as he contemplates this. A quick glance up confirms that L is still waiting for him to follow. He ignores it for a moment, blinking to clear the memories that spread like thick cobwebs over his consciousness.

And then he pushes it aside and stands up to follow L to the kitchen.

"Is Light-kun all right?" L asks, sounding more curious than concerned.

Light smiles a bit—one of the new expressions he's mastered—and says, "I'm fine."

* * *

A/N: YEssssssssssssssssssss okay. I know that it's fairly short, but many of my first chapters are--and these chapters get longer, I promise. And more interesting. And they have more dialogue. And . . . well, you get the picture. This is just the beginning, that's all I'm sayin'.

I have decided that I'm reinstating my review reply policy. I just feel like it's too much of a one-sided thing. So even if I'm busy, rest assured that I'll be replying to all comments except for the "OMg liek update soone!!!1 ^-^ XD :D" Not that I don't like getting those. But unless you want me to reply back with, "Yah abslutelie, soon as I kan! *giggles*" then I don't have much to say back.

Please let me know what you thought--there are some minor changes in there, and I'm really excited to get started on this story again, since it's one of the ones I'm not actually totally finished with! Very few people out there--perhaps one or maybe two--have been told the ending, so now we're going to get some new material! YESSS!!

So, yeah, review! I'll write back! And love you forever!


	2. L

**Part 02 – L**

**Edited and Reposted as of 10.23.09  
**

**

* * *

**Light has only one weapon left, because L has either destroyed or taken all his others. Gone is his acerbic sarcasm and witty repartee. Gone are his good looks, his charming smile, his best mask. He is working to reclaim those; he watches the videos and practices whenever he is alone. Light knows that it would probably be more productive to practice in front of L, to see his reactions to the acting, but he can't swallow his pride enough to embarrass himself like that.

And gone is . . . Kira. Light can't remember, he can't know exactly how Kira changed him, but to have most of the memories of the past eight years gone, tarnished, incomplete—it is enough to make him feel like screaming. Sometimes he does.

And worst of all, gone is his mind, his most formidable weapon. He's still brilliant, his mind still moves impossibly fast, but he often can't control the twists and turns it takes. He hasn't lost enough brain cells to knock him of out of the genius category, but all those cells seem to have twisted and bent until he can't even recognize them himself.

The one weapon he has left is the one he spent years honing in L's holding cells, during his period chained to L, and especially in Crowley's asylum.

It is silence.

And he uses it formidably.

At this point, it is the only weapon he has against L, his savior, his enemy. Light uses silence—silence of speech, of expression, of emotion—to both make and conceal points in conversation. He uses silence when L asks him a question he does not know the answer to. He uses silence when he is afraid that he will give the wrong answer. Once, many years ago, he'd thought that silence was an admission of guilt. Now he knows better; now he knows that silence is golden the same way his tongue used to be silver.

* * *

"I am curious to know what Light-kun intends to do with his constant observance of social culture and interaction," L says one night as they are eating dinner. He doesn't look up from his own sweets, so he misses the action-oriented answer Light gives him.

Light straightens and leans back in his chair, crossing his legs as he goes, and holds his chopsticks in a loose grasp instead of the death grip he'd had on them before. He studies himself briefly in the reflection of the refrigerator. Not bad. Much more relaxed. More natural, seemingly more open. He keeps his head up and his eyes on L. And all this in only two or three seconds, an acceptable length of time to pause in a conversation. And then, he is silent.

After a moment, L looks up at him to see exactly what's taking so long. When he does, L takes in his new posture and facial expression. Instead of the dark, concentrated expression Light usually adopts, he has smoothed the creases out of his forehead and around his mouth. His eyes are still entirely too concentrated to be considered normal, but the rest of the expression—the almost-smile, the tilt of the head, the eye contact—is very much like the Light he used to know.

The posture as well. Legs crossed, something Light always used to do when he was feeling fairly comfortable in a situation. His back straight and slightly reclined in his chair. Very normal, very relaxed. If it weren't for how his hands still trembled and twitched slightly, L might be able to believe that this was eight years ago, before everything had imploded.

"Interesting," L comments.

"Thank you," Light says, not dropping the act.

He sounds very self-satisfied right now, and L considers mentioning something horrible that will snap him out of it. But he knows that that would be a rather inexcusable betrayal of trust. So rather than start an argument, L goes back to his food. He doesn't expect Light to say anything more and looks up in surprise when he does.

"You don't like this," Light says simply.

"I don't like what?" L asks. There could be a great many things to which Light is referring—including this situation, their living arrangements, the food, or Light's current behavior, just to name a few.

"You don't like this act," Light clarifies.

"I never have," L admits, looking back up at him.

"Would you rather I always look beaten and defeated and utterly lacking in communication and social skills?" Light asks.

L hesitates. "No," he says finally. "No, I would rather Light-kun be truthful about what he is feeling or thinking."

"Half the time, I don't think I could even express it," Light comments, picking up his glass and draining it to avoid eye contact. Sometimes, he really wished he drank. This, of course, would have a positively dreadful outcome when combined with his medication, so that was out of the question.

"Hmm," L murmurs, lowering his eyes to the table and picking at the stir fry in front of him. Somehow, this has turned out to be a perfectly unsatisfying conversation, and L would rather it just ended now.

"My, don't you sound cheerful. What has you so unhappy?"

"Light-kun is attempting normalcy, even when he knows I can see right through it," L says, explaining only a small part of what's made him irritated.

"You might be able to, L," Light says placatingly, "but then, you've always been able to see through me. This act might not be so transparent to someone of ordinary intelligence and status."

L looks him over again. "Maybe," he says. "But your eyes, Light-kun, give you away. They always have, and it is worse now."

"What is wrong with them?" Light asks. It's not a challenging question. Light latches on the possibility of learning new ways to make his act more convincing.

"It's not just you," L says. "Eyes are generally considered to be a pathway to the human soul."

"Are mine different than they were before?"

"Yes. You look tired, and frightened, but mostly very focused. Someone else may not understand the first two, but they will pick up on how intent your eyes are."

"They're too sharp," Light says, understanding. "I need to look a bit softer."

L nods. "That's right," he says. "But why is Light-kun so determined to do this?"

Light thinks about that, and then closes his eyes briefly as his thoughts begin to spiral. "It's . . . it's important to me, L." Light doesn't—perhaps cannot—express how important it truly is for him to be able to _lie _again. He feels constantly open, constantly exposed, and with that lack of confidence and almost-naked feeling, he is finding it impossible to stabilize and breathe. He thinks that once he can lie again, once he can lie to _himself_ again, things will get much easier.

"I can see that," L says. "Why?"

But Light has had enough of this prying conversation, and so he closes his eyes and wields the only weapon left in his arsenal again.

* * *

Nighttime. Three a.m. and very quiet. Light's easy breathing fills the dark room, fills practically the whole house, since it's the only sound anywhere.

L sighs, stretching his cramped joints and muscles that are sore from him sitting in one position for hours. He eases out of the bed he shares with Light and pads softly out of the room, closing the door gently behind himself.

For the most part, L stays with Light during the night. It's simpler and less impersonal than installing security cameras to watch him. Light doesn't notice the gentle tap of L's keyboard as L works and as he sleeps, and L feels worried whenever he isn't near Light, so the arrangement suits both of them.

Sometimes, though . . . sometimes, it feels like too much. Generally, L pushes aside any discomfort or discouragement that he feels—since he knows that Light's is much worse, and that it is partly his fault. But these early morning hours, watching Light sleep easily under the influence of medication, being so close to him, watching every miniscule emotion play across his face, L almost feels tired.

Not of Light. He never gets tired of Light and of the puzzle he poses. But of this whole situation—of feeling guilty about everything he's done in the name of supposed justice.

And so tonight, L has to get out of their stifling bedroom, which feels filled with guilt and betrayal and regret. He can't go far; he knows that he has to stay nearby in case Light wakes unexpectedly, but he has to leave.

In the bathroom, L strips and steps into the shower, turning the water on quite hot, perhaps too hot, but he's too caught up in his own thoughts to notice.

He should have just had Light executed.

L surprises himself with this thought.

It's true, though. It was what Light wanted and what the law demanded. But L hadn't wanted it, and so, selfishly, inexplicably selfishly, he'd intervened.

L grimaces now, eyes tightly shut as he thinks about this. It was stupid, so stupid. He was stupid. He doesn't want Light dead, especially not now. But he hadn't wanted him dead years ago either. He'd thought . . .

God, he doesn't even know what he'd thought.

Yes he does. He does and it makes him cringe, remembering.

He'd thought about how brilliant Light was and how he had been the only person L was ever interested in for friendship. He'd been thinking about Light's capacity for good, as well as evil, once he was removed from his murder weapon.

He'd been thinking about how Light had mercilessly planned his death and how he had murdered thousands without batting an eye, without any external signs of condemning men to their deaths. L had been thinking about how Light had almost bested him, how he'd come so close to killing him, and how he would have killed him if he hadn't just decided to give up.

No matter how L had looked at it back then—whether Light as Kira or Light as his friend—it served L's purposes to keep him alive. He didn't want to lose Light as his friend, even if he couldn't see him. Knowing he was alive helped L feel less . . . alone. Less like the machine he was before the Kira case. And Light as Kira needed to be punished. Death was too kind; Light needed to be humbled, he needed to see that his delusions were completely wrong.

Well, he certainly had been brought very low.

And L was _sorry_, hell, he doesn't think he's ever felt worse about anything else. And it's not even completely his fault and then horribly, it is all his fault because _he _was the one who spared Light from death. Because of his status as L, Light's life was saved and he was consigned to a worse Hell than L had ever imagined.

It wasn't as though he could even express his regret, either. He'd already apologized. While he'd be more than happy to do so again, to express these awful feelings that boiled just below the surface of his chest, Light would see it as a weakness. Light wouldn't exploit it, but it would make him think less of L—something L thought neither of them could afford.

And then the other horrible part about all of this was _why_ Light had given up. Because he'd . . . he'd what? He never actually said the word _love_, but he'd said he had to give up being Kira because gods don't fall the way he had. Because he'd wanted something he could never have.

It isn't awful that Light loves him . . . or loved him. It's awful that he had felt that way and then had automatically assumed that L could never return the sentiment. It was awful that he had despaired so quickly of being worthy of L's attentions—that he had thought death better than living with love for L and disappointment in himself.

And all that was awful because L could return the sentiment, because Light was worthy of his attention, because L still wanted so badly to have his companionship on every level. Because Light couldn't give him that anymore. L just had to take whatever he would give.

And it _sucked_.

It was awful to hold him while he was having an episode or while he was falling asleep or to kiss his cheek softly when he was upset beyond the comfort of words—or that Light had too many of his own issues for L to ever talk about his.

And it was equally terrible that Light had ever been Kira. L was glad that he had destroyed the Death Note, because it had done so much damage to so many lives. It was the notebook that had been evil, not Light. Light had only ever been a tool.

A willing tool, of course. L couldn't forget that no one had forced Light to use the notebook—but L himself had felt the allure of that power. For the past five years he'd dealt with being the holder of the Note and he constantly felt it, like a prickling feeling in the back of his mind, reminding him that the answer to all his problems—to difficult criminals he couldn't catch, to murderers and rapists and the evil that pervaded the human mind was sitting maybe three feet away from him.

L had never used it. Not once. Not because he hadn't wanted to. Not because it would have been convenient or maybe even acceptable to do so in hostage situations or with criminals at large. But because L knew that, if he ever used it once, he would never be able to stop. He'd learned that from Light; L still doesn't know how Light found the strength to give it all up. A soft voice in the back of L's mind, that had been gradually growing stronger, whispered that there might be a day when that Death Note was the only option, the only way to save lives. So he had kept it until he had to destroy it for Light's sake.

Again, for Light. Everything for him.

It was when L was burning the Death Note, two days after they had retrieved Light from the Institute, that he had realized that.

Everything he'd done was for Light. Just as Light had given up his ideals for L, for his love for L—L had done the same for Light.

Because he loved him.

L's grimace grows more pronounced and he makes a tiny, miserable noise as he thinks that.

He loves him. And it _stings._

But what is L supposed to say? Light is far too volatile to even consider discussing such deep emotions with him. L has no idea how he'll react, and frankly . . . he doesn't relish the idea of rejection.

He doesn't even know if Light is capable of love anymore. He doesn't know much about Light anymore.

So often, too often, Light seems like he's off in his own world—in an alternate reality that exists alongside L's but has nothing in common with it except the scenery. He's often caught up in his own thoughts, and L never knows if he's planning something or constantly winging it. His emotions, his actions are so damn irrational sometimes that L doesn't know how to react. He'll say one thing, and then do the opposite. He'll admit to feeling tired, and then he'll stay up all night. Nothing clicks, nothing sticks, nothing matches up. L never even knows if Light's emotions are manufactured or real.

And most of all, L has no idea what Light feels about him.

It differs from day to day. Light is sometimes grateful for is presence, sometimes he hates him, sometimes he's resentful, sometimes he's smiling slightly, almost tender with how he treats L. L could always ask him, of course, since Light rarely lies to him and when he tries L can tell. But just because something is true for Light for one second doesn't mean that he constantly feels it. L can't trust Light's emotions anymore than Light can.

L wants to be closer to Light. He wants for them to be . . . hell, he'd settle for consistent friendship. But what he really wants is a companion. A partner. A . . . lover.

As usual, when L thinks this, his mouth goes dry. He rarely admits this desire to himself and he's never spoken it aloud. Again, he has no idea how Light would react. And L knows that perhaps he's just acting like a coward, but dammit, he's never dealt with emotions of this magnitude in his life, and now he has to balance those along with Light's insanity. And it's not even as though L can turn to Wammy for advice, because somehow, he doubts that Wammy would approve of the union of the world's greatest three detectives, and his almost-surrogate-son, and a legally psychotic mass murderer of thousands who is on three different medications.

And it sucks; this whole situation—knowing his wants, but not knowing Light's, knowing his feelings, but being unable to interpret Light's—sucks.

L sighs as he notices that the water around him is almost frigid. He's been in here for maybe an hour, and he's only washed his hair and soaped his body. Not exactly great accomplishments, those.

He sighs again and shuts off the freezing water, climbing out of the shower and toweling off quickly. As he steps out of the humid bathroom, he is startled to see a shadow moving near the door. L is even more surprised when he realized that it is Wammy standing there, not Light.

L looks up at him, realizes that Wammy's lips are drawn into a fine line, and his eyebrows are knit together. "Is there something wrong, Wammy?" he asks, his heart plummeting straight down into his stomach. If it is something to do with Light, if it has anything to do with how L left him alone for well over an hour, if Light is hurt, or . . . or L can't even bring himself to _think_ the other possibility—

"There have been a series of assaults and I think you should take a look," Wammy says, and L actually exhales in relief that it has nothing to do with Light.

"Just a few assaults?" L asks curiously. "I usually only deal with more complicated or serious crimes."

"Trust me, L," Wammy says, turning and leading him down the hallway, "this is quite serious."

* * *

When Light wakes up, it is not an alarm clock or L's fingers in his hair, or the sun blinding behind his eyelids that does it. It is actually still quite dark inside the comfortable room, and L is nowhere to be found. What does wake him up is his own screaming.

"_Light," B said, twirling a bit of grass between deft fingers. _

_Light looked up at him, his eyes guarded and dull. It had been nearly two years since L had thrown him into this hellhole, and he was no closer to escaping than the day he'd been admitted. His only source of sanity—strange as it seemed—was the hour he was allowed outside every week. More to the point, the hour he spent with B. "What?" Light asked, when B seemed to be waiting for a reply. _

"_I'm curious," B said. _

"_You usually are," Light answered. _

_B stopped before he asked the question on his lips and changed tactics instead. "What has Crowley done to you now?" he asked instead, no trace of pity in his voice. It was idle curiosity and a feral delight that stained his tone now. _

_Light shrugged, plucking the blade of grass away from B. "Nothing unusual," he said. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears—distant, like he was listening to himself underwater. _

"_You're losing it," B said, unable to contain a delighted, manic giggle at the thought. _

_Light looked up at him sharply, meeting his crimson gaze for the first time all afternoon. "I'm not," he insisted. "He can only hurt me physically. There's nothing he can do to my mind."_

_B really laughed then, just threw back his head and cackled, the delighted stream of laughter curling around Light like the edges of burning paper and making him cringe. "Can you even make yourself believe that, Light Yagami?" he asked, and when Light didn't respond, he continued. "You don't believe that. You see how he twists your mind as he twists your body. Psychological responses to extreme physiological stress are only natural after all."_

"_Contrary to what you may think, I didn't actually come out here to talk about Crowley," Light snapped. B was right—of course he was right. He was always right, just the same as L . . . _

_But that was a dangerous train of thought, and one that Light refused to let himself dwell on. _

"_Okay, then," B said cheerfully. "I'll ask my other question."_

"_Fine," Light said dully, relaxing back onto the sparse grass. He thought it strange, for a moment, that he was so comfortable around B. He even allowed his eyes to slip shut, something he never normally would have done, if he hadn't been so damned tired—Crowley had been keeping him awake for hours and hours, sending painful shocks of electricity through the damn chip embedded in his spine that woke him entirely whenever he closed his eyes in his room. He'd been awake for maybe two days now. _

"_I'm curious about how L caught you," B said. _

_Light didn't open his eyes, although he did wince slightly at the mention of L. "I'll bet," he said casually, not moving otherwise. _

"_I have a theory, from what you've told me and what I've surmised about your personality," B began. _

"_Thrill me," Light answered, barely listening anymore. _

"_You gave up," B said, and then giggled again as Light's eyes opened and he turned his head to stare at him. _

"_Why on earth would I do that?" Light asked. "L promised Kira death." _

"_You wanted to die," B explained patiently._

_Light stared at him for another moment before smirking and letting his head relax back onto the grass. "I didn't."_

"_You did or you wouldn't have given up."_

"_Why would I want to die?" Light asked. His eyes slipped shut. The darkness afforded to him by the use of his own eyelids was something he'd never thought he'd have to be grateful for. Now, it felt like a first breath, a splash of cold water. _

_B was silent for so long that Light smirked slightly, unable to control that smug lift of the corners of his lips as he thought that he had stumped B. _

_And then, suddenly, quite suddenly, he felt B shift next to him, and his eyes flew open to stare into B's, which were only a few inches away from him. _

"_Fuck, B!" he exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing?" Light didn't need to ask; he could see perfectly well what B had done. B had moved from his seated position next to Light to a more intimate one above him, knees on either side of his waist, hands on either side of his head, nothing touching but the heat of his body very close. _

"_I think," B said, his breath ghosting over Light's lips, "that you gave up, because you found something you valued more than being Kira."_

"_Well, obviously," Light snapped. "If your assumption was correct, and I did give up, then naturally, I would have had to have thought I would gain something by it."_

"_You gave up because of L," B said. _

_Light was silent, still. "Move, B," he finally said. _

"_No," B said comfortably. "You gave up because L, and L being alive, became more important to you than being Kira. You gave up because you _cared for him_." _

"_Get off me," Light snarled, his mind at its breaking point. He was tired, starving, hurting, and now, really fucking annoyed and a little terrified. _

"_It's okay, you know," B told him. "L is such a fascinating creature, isn't he? It's hard _not_ to pay attention to him."_

"_We're not having this conversation," Light informed him, his exhaustion still itching at his eyes and making time feel nonlinear—like this had happened yesterday, or maybe it was happening tomorrow and god-damn it, he couldn't see anything! _

Open your eyes then, moron, _his brain suggested, and Light managed to pry his eyelids—which had fell shut the moment he'd turned to an inner monologue instead of focusing on the outsides—open. _

_B cocked his head to one side, his face relaxing into apathy and his eyes losing their gleam until he was staring dully at Light with an expression so uncannily like L's that Light shuddered and looked away, not even fighting anymore, just wanting this horrible whatever-it-was to leave him alone. _

_As he started to move, to try to extricate himself carefully from the confines of B's body, suddenly, B leaned down and just kissed him. Just—a few seconds of warm and unfamiliar lip contact before he pulled back to gauge Light's reaction. "You wanted that from him," B told him confidentially. _

_What else could he do? _

_Light ran. _

_The conversations and arguments they'd shared over the past two years had shaped him, twisted him, molded his insanity and set a dangerous precedent for his own behavior. He'd seen B do horrible things—to other prisoners, to himself, and eventually, to Light himself. And gradually, Light stopped thinking that B's obsession with pain and with the taste of blood was strange. _

_Because he'd started to enjoy it himself._

_The dream blurred from here and became twisted and tarnished around the edges. He saw himself being led back into his cell after he'd run from B—and tried to run from the asylum. He was wrestled down onto a metal examination table and strapped firmly down. He struggled and was hit a few times on the face for his troubles. _

_Then, endless, interminable waiting. _

_Sharp, painful jolts of electricity in his spine whenever he closed his eyes for longer than a few seconds. _

_So. _

_Fucking. _

_Tired . . . _

_And just when he was ready to scream, or beg, or even cry for release, for sleep, because it had been hours and hours and days and he was going to _starve _to death or just die from exhaustion, Crowley entered his cell in with a syringe in one hand and a scalpel in the other. _

_And then his mind mercifully blurred the memory and all that he seemed to recall was painpainpain never ending and—_

And that is when he wakes up, his screams loud in his own ears.

Usually, he would feel L's arms around him or at least hear his voice speaking soothingly, but tonight . . . nothing.

Even though it was . . . here Light glances at the clock . . . four thirty in the morning, L should still be here. Light knows, of course, that L is gone every so often when he sleeps, because sometimes he'll sense the warm presence gone or he'll hear the padded footsteps and the soft click of the door. But he's always at least mostly asleep and by the time his nightmares wake him, L is always back.

Shivering, Light sits up and pulls the blanket around his shoulders for a moment as he takes stock of his position. He's in their room, he thinks. Sometimes after nightmares he's never quite sure, if maybe this is just a trick, a horrible sort of torture Crowley has thought of for him, or if it's his own mind that is just making all this up to escape from a much worse reality.

He decides that he is sane enough to get up and, if he can't find L, at least boil some tea for himself to make himself more comfortable. Besides, the menial task would calm him, and Light is perversely pleased with the idea of doing something for himself, instead of needing the detective constantly by his side. Even though he was shaking like an aspen because he wasn't.

Light gets up, taking the blanket slung haphazardly around his shoulders with him, and pads softly out of the room, fumbling briefly with the handle before walking slowly out into the hallway. Walking doesn't hurt anymore, thank God, but if he tries to move too fast, a searing pain licks at his ankles and calves like flames. He heads towards the kitchen, pleased with the idea of making tea at this hour, by himself, for himself, but stops just short of it when he hears voices coming from the living room, which also plays host to the dim blue glow of a laptop.

Now that his focus has changed, Light can hear hushed voices coming from the room and he moves closer so they will become clearer.

The first one he hears is L's and the sound of it calms him immensely. He almost walks into the room, but stops when L's words register.

"And each of the victims had similar wounds?" he asks.

"Yes." This is Wammy, who must be briefing L on a case. "Identical."

There is a moment of silence, and Light almost walks in again, but this time he stops entirely—stops breathing, moving, even thinking—when L speaks.

"I can think of no other explanation," is what L says. "It must be Crowley's work. He is playing with us."

"That is something that I had considered," Wammy says. "Will you take the case?"

"Of course," L says. "Only . . . quietly, Wammy. Light is still wholly unstable. I cannot imagine his reaction to any case of this severity, much less when it's Crowley. If Light knew . . ."

Wammy's voice is disapproving. "You haven't told him Crowley is alive—and looking for him?"

Light doesn't wait to hear L's answer, his feet are moving on their own, scuffing backwards on the carpet as he moves away from the door, shaking his head back and forth, like that will somehow make it not-true.

Like anything he can do or say is going to make anything L just said all right. Any of it—Crowley, L's opinion on his . . . on _him_.

Crowley is _alive_.

He is fighting with their bedroom door, trying to keep quiet and trying not to shake. When he finally makes it in and shuts the door gently behind him, he climbs back into bed and pulls the blankets tight around his shoulders and just _trembles. _

_Oh, God . . . _

He says it out loud. "Oh, God . . ." He wants to cry, to scream, and for once, it seems like none of those things exist for him. His first reaction is to turn to L, to his head into the warm, soft juncture where his head and shoulder meet, where L's hair will tickle his eyelids—he wants this, wants the comfort and strength and the clean, sweet smell that he has grown so accustomed to beside him.

And yet . . .

Though this is his first reaction, his very next one is nausea at even the thought of touching L now—_now, _when he's lied and kept secrets . . .

(And Light doesn't think it out loud, but he knows that what is really making him feel like his drowning with his wide open eyes and straining fingers is what L said, not about Crowley, but about _him_, about his stability, about what, exactly, L thinks of the progress he has made so far.)

_And Crowley is alive. _

The thought sends a thrill of fear straight down his spine, just like how electricity used to move. Light feels as though there isn't quite enough air but he only pulls the blankets tighter around himself and thinks, vaguely, _good, I hope I suffocate. _

As he waits, trying not to think, only consumed by fear no matter where he turns his mind, gradually, he feels the fear ebb to make way for red anger that threads its way through him and binds him to darker thoughts.

L never told him, wasn't planning on telling him that Crowley has more victims, that he is working on catching him. L wasn't going to tell him that revenge was possible, that Light could have some closure. L was just going to keep Light in the dark because he was so fucking _delicate _and we wouldn't want to _upset _him, now would we?

Light's lips pull back in a quiet snarl as he thinks this.

How _dare_ L keep something like that from him? How dare L just _assume_ that Light was too battered and unstable to do any good on a case this personal?

An animal noise of strangled rage sounds in his throat, and he grits and grinds his teeth together. _How dare he​? _Light demands.

Again, Light thinks of his Death Note, thoughts of his own suicide pushed to the side as he considers this new situation. If he had it, if only he had one, if only that was even a possibility anymore . . .

Because he has some horribly, wonderfully creative deaths in mind for Doctor Matthias Crowley.

It would be so _easy_, so _cheap_. The little letters—longer than the average name, maybe. Fifteen simple, English letters and he'd be gone and dead.

Crowley—the bastard that he is—told Light his full name on the first day Light had arrived in the asylum. Said he knew all about the Death Note. Dared Light to kill him.

Light was willing to take that dare, now that the odds were a little more even.

On the other hand, the Death Note would be so impersonal. _Light_ wants to be the one who kills Crowley. _He_ wants to catch Crowley. _He_ wants to see that bastard's face when he is arrested and sentenced to death. _He _wants revenge. It is his to take.

And at the same time, revenge is a rather terrifying path to take, because if he attempted it, he would have to face the doctor, in person. And L is right that he is rather unstable. Who knew if he would be able to handle himself well enough?

And if he slipped, if he faltered . . . Crowley knew his weaknesses intimately, better probably than even L. If he was going to have revenge, it would have to be absolutely thoroughly thought out. There could be no room for failure.

Light grits his teeth again as he thinks that. He has fallen so far from his previous self. Before, he would just plan and he would already _know_ that his ideas were infallible. Now, he second guesses and flinches and delays. He is _pathetic_, and he is going to have to find a way around his weakness.

L cannot be permitted to exclude him from this investigation. For the first time since he held the Death Note, Light can feel a sense of _purpose_ rushing through him, cutting cleanly through his ennui and terror and confusion.

He has something to work towards, and it is not the inane, abstract idea of recovery. Recovery is impossible.

Revenge is concrete. Doable. Plausible, tempting, achievable, _wonderful._

Revenge, yes—now that is something that Light Yagami can do.

* * *

A/N: Hey, look, the plot's starting to emerge!

Plot: *waves shyly from the corner

Well, now things are definitely starting to pick up.

Oh, and you guys. You guys. Guess who spent hours this week completely remastering the ending of Silence?

It was me. And the new ending is something I'm so, SO much happier about. It makes me eager to really start posting this. There were still a few kinks to work out when I had to delete this story, and a few loose ends (mostly characterization stuff) that I had to work on.

But NOW. Now we have an ending. It is a great ending, too. Fantastic, really.

Okay, I'm going to stop torturing everyone now and get started actually WRITING the damn thing. We'll see if I come to you next chapter in tears about how things aren't cooperating.

In the meantime, however . . .

Review?


	3. Panic

**Part 03 – Panic**

**Edited and Reposted as of 11.04.09  
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* * *

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"Light, stop it."

To anyone else, it would look like Light just had a bad habit of biting his nails nervously and constantly. He's subtle about it; but L knows that Light is actually nipping at the callused, scarred skin on the tips of his fingers, not necessarily trying to draw blood, but certainly trying to cause pain.

L has asked him why, but Light has never been able to explain his fascination with pain to L's satisfaction. To some degree, L can understand it even without Light's help: since Light was in near-constant pain of some kind or other for five years, having the sensation just disappear would cause feelings of loss, even though the experiences were unpleasant. But then, Light isn't constantly trying to cause himself pain—generally, just when he's nervous or trying not to think about something. Perhaps the pain distracts him?

At any rate, Light lowers his hand and places it in his lap without looking at L even once. L suppresses a sigh and turns back to his own computer. Light has been stubbornly silent and uncooperative this morning, and as always, this sort of behavior is causing L to feel a heady cocktail of emotions—confusion, irritation, guilt, slight amusement, anxiety, and nostalgia, to name a few.

It is these sorts of days that L wishes he really were a machine designed to dole out justice. It would make living a hell of a lot easier.

"L."

L and Light both look up when they hear Watari's voice floating in through the connection on the laptop. Watari had been called away by some organization or other and had been conversing with them for some hours now.

L leans forward, towards the microphone. "Yes, Watari?" he asks.

"Tolman sent some documents regarding his investigation. Apparently, further information has come to light. I have it on the computer downstairs."

Tolman is the head of an investigation into Crowley's Institute, and any mention of him sets L's teeth on edge because he's sick of all this damned red tape. If L had his way, Crowley and his subordinates would have been thrown into the darkest pit of solitary confinement he could find.

Not that L actually knew where Crowley was. But all of his guards and doctors are in custody right now, and L is sick of waiting for the investigation to dredge up enough evidence to throw them all into a cell.

Light doesn't know, of course. Again, it's more of a matter of sensitivity than security. L doesn't know how Light would react and he'd rather avoid any more breakdowns, if possible. And if there was ever a time _not_ to tell Light about this, it is now. He's been irritatingly silent all day. Even though he's followed his usual pattern—watching video feed, occasionally looking over some of the cases in his inbox, taking short walks, eating normally, etc., L can tell he's furious about something.

It isn't like Light—or at least, it isn't like this version of Light—to let things just stew. Generally speaking, he doesn't even have the capacity to suppress emotions. But after trying all morning, L has given up on trying to discuss whatever it is that's bothering Light.

All in all, L doesn't think it's safe to leave Light alone. But he thinks it's probably an even worse idea to take Light with him to view whatever files Tolman has sent over, since they are likely about Light anyway. He struggles for a few seconds over which would pose more danger and Light picks up on his hesitation.

"I'm fine," Light says. He doesn't turn to look at L and his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on the sheet of paper he's holding when he notices L's hesitation.

"I may be gone for a while," L says.

"Are you leaving the house?" Light asks dully. He makes a show of setting the document down and switching over to the screen in front of him.

"No." L lowers his legs and frowns at Light, willing him to look at him.

"I'm _fine_, L. Stop acting like I'm going to stick a fork in an electric socket the minute you walk out of the room."

L, who was halfway out of his chair, stops and sits again. Light sighs.

There is a brief, one-sided staring contest during which Light serenely ignores L.

L loses the brief, one-sided starting contest and instead rests his head on the desk in front of him, unwilling to leave just yet.

His head is down, so he cannot see Light's expression when he turns to (finally) look at L. L can only assume that it's a glare. Finally, Light snaps. "I'm not going to do anything, L," he says. "Or at least, I won't if you leave now. You're starting to annoy the hell out of me."

That's enough, and L stands. He doesn't like it when Light is angry with him, but anger is more reassuring than many of the other emotions he could be feeling right now. "I shouldn't be more than an hour or so," he says and then heads downstairs.

As soon as he's gone, Light relaxes back into his chair for a moment before turning away from the screen where he's been watching video feed. Instead, he moves his chair over to L's computer and starts working.

Many of his talents have dwindled and others are gone entirely, but hacking is not one of them.

* * *

There are pages and pages, typed in neat little rows or even handwritten, in tiny, scrawling print that L has to squint to read. At the top of each set of notes, a date and a time, written so fastidiously that L has to admire the doctor in his obsession.

And L thought he was fixated on watching Light.

L has to wonder what the doctor actually _did_ in regards to the rest of his facility, if anything at all. From these notes, it seems as though all he ever did was watch Light, was torture Light, was analyze and decipher and twist.

He feels cold as he begins to read and leaf through all of the stark white pages with tiny black print.

Finally, he looks back up, at Watari. "I thought we already had all his notes from the Institute," L finally says.

"We did," Watari tells him. "These weren't at the Institute."

"Why has it take so long for us to find these?"

"He had them filed away in various bank deposits and secure locations," Watari explains, and although his voice is calm, his brow is furrowed and he gazes down on the documents in consternation.

"That . . . is an unprecedented level of obsession and paranoia," L says. He lowers the notes, remembering his new favorite case. "Have there been any other leads with Crowley?" he asks.

Watari reaches behind him and picks up the first manila envelope in a large stack of documents. He turns and hands it to L.

"There've been more attacks recorded, this time in Chicago," he says.

"I had not imagined that Crowley would be so much trouble," L mutters, shaking the envelope so its contents fall onto the table in front of him. Each of the photographs displays a body, mangled and bloody in some way. In the first is a woman with long scars down each of her forearms, bands twisted at the tops of her arms like tourniquets and the flesh scraped away from her fingers, like they'd been peeled. L rather suspects that hers had been a slow death.

And in the next photograph is a man with dark hair and bright eyes—not that either of those were attached to his body anymore. There is no further damage to the man's body and cause of death is not apparent until the next few photographs show close-ups of the man's skin, punctured with tiny holes that L suspects are injection sites. Of what drug he doesn't know, but he's certain the autopsy report will shed more light on the situation.

To anyone else, these attacks combined with the string of mutilated bodies L is already investigating may seem unrelated, if it wasn't for the common thread that linked them all: each of the victims' Achilles' tendons had been cleanly sliced through in wounds that were all too familiar to L.

He examines the photographs briefly before pushing them away in disgust. "I will work on this later," L says reluctantly. "I only have an hour or so to look at the notes Tolman sent over."

As Watari exits, L turns back to the stack of notes and sighs. Even for a mind as brilliant as his, reading through all this is going to take hours. It will likely be exhausting as well, because these are not just case notes about some faceless victim. This is about Light.

L thumbs through the pages, glancing dully at them as he goes.

And then he frowns and flips back a few entries, and then he freezes. L stares at the top of the page, where the first line reads, _Light and Beyond continue to interact during the hour all prisoners are permitted outside; this is the eighth week they have communicated exclusively with one another. _

There are a few sweet moments where L doesn't think at all, and when those are over with, he just wants to scream. Because suddenly, a lot of things are clicking into place. Light mentioned, of course, that he knew who Beyond was, but L also distinctly remembers Light saying that they weren't friends.

Like hell they weren't.

_June 12th, 12:07 p.m.: Light and Beyond converse for an hour. Their discussion seems tranquil—as opposed to the conversations of any other prisoners and these two individuals. Light's body language suggests that he is relatively relaxed. Natural sitting position, shoulders down and relaxed, no eye contact but casual about gestures . . . _

L doesn't quite understand this emotion that feels like it's heating his veins. He's felt it before, he's certain he has, but he tries to ignore it as he reads through the rest of the doctor's notes.

_August 22nd, 1:13 p.m.: Light continues to be more relaxed directly after his socialization with Beyond. He is more difficult to manage in therapy, but his conversation skills and communication skills improve directly after contact with Beyond. Possible that Light is also picking up some of Beyond's habits. Is constantly biting nails and lower lip, and hands are generally restless . . . _

Every week for nearly three years, Light and B had socialized for at least an hour.

_October 7th, 1:10 p.m.: An anomaly in the usual communication between Light and Beyond occurred nearly halfway through their communication. Light, presumably exhausted from the experimentation about his ability to function without sleep, was nearly asleep when Beyond kneeled above him. Brief conversation ensued, and then further physical contact which must be explored further . . ._

And that was more than enough time for them to leave their mark on one another.

Suddenly, too many things begin making sense to L, starting first with Light's insane, chilling laughter. L shakes his head, wanting to deny that B may have twisted Light's madness further, but now that he's made the connection, L can hear the similarities. Light's tendency to bite at his fingers, which L had originally assumed was a habit taken from himself, and even Light's penchant for blood and pain . . .

Could all that possibly have stemmed from B?

L shivers as he remembers more than he cares to about his doppelganger and then nods. Yes, all those habits and tendencies and _madness_ could certainly have come from B.

L's stomach feels as though it has dropped straight out of him and his heart is pounding in his chest. His veins still feel as though they are on fire, and he closes his eyes to try to quell whatever the hell is making him feel so . . . panicked.

He is panicking, isn't he? L takes a deep breath as he realizes that that is what he is feeling. Fear and anger and guilt so strong they border on panic. How much of this is he to be expected to endure? How many unpleasant surprises can he weather and remain sane and stable?

L never felt . . . well, he never felt much of anything before Light invaded his life. Now everything is too strong and he's never dealt with for all this, and wishes that he could let Light know it too. Of course he is struggling. Of course he has no fucking idea what he's doing . . .

No. He can handle this, he knows he can; because he has to handle it, because there is already one entirely unstable entity in this relationship and he cannot compete with what Light has been through. Nor would he want to.

He will find Crowley, he will sentence him to death, and he will find B too, just for good measure. B's been at large for years now, but there hasn't been even a whisper of what he could be up to, so L has by and large tried just not to think about him at all.

L takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, not daring to look at the rest of what Crowley has written about Light and B just yet. He will find Crowley, and he will certainly find B, and he will make certain they are good and buried; he will because he has to because he is L, damn it. He takes another deep breath and glances at the clock. It's been nearly an hour and past time that he went back to Light. He glares at the notes for another moment, then turns on his heel and starts up the stairs.

* * *

"I need more video feed."

"What?" L asks distractedly. Light glances over at him irritably. L has been agitated and unfocused ever since he returned from the notes that Tolman dropped off, whoever or whatever that is.

"I need more video feed," Light repeats.

L studies him carefully and comes to the conclusion that whatever has Light upset has not been resolved—only suppressed. He still looks haggard and sleepless and he's refusing to make eye contact. His hands are in his lap, twisted together.

Finally, L decides to converse as long as Light is willing to do so. "Have you studied everything you already have to your satisfaction?" he asks.

Light looks vaguely relieved, which only solidifies L's suspicions that Light is trying to hide something. Light nods. "Yes," he says. "I've learned everything I can from them."

L turns back to his own computer, trying to puzzle Light out as he thinks of a suitable response. "I can bring up more footage," he begins, and then is surprised again when Light cuts him off.

"No," Light says, and L swivels back around to face him.

"No?" he asks calmly. If there's anything that L really misses, it is the ability to irritate and goad Light. They used to have a great deal of fun teasing and baiting each other. Now if he tries it, Light shuts down.

"I have a better idea," Light clarifies, and L is silent, waiting for him to continue.

"You saved all the footage from the Kira case, right?" Light asks, and L nods. "I want that," Light says bluntly, coldly, leaving no room for argument. "I want the footage you have of me from the Kira case."

"No," L says, the word leaving his lips before he's even had a chance to think about them. On a normal day, this would have been an unthinkable error; today, L's just glad that he hasn't started screaming. It's obvious why Light would want to watch himself—if he's trying to figure out how to lie again, how could he better do that than by watching a master?

Light's posture is stiff. His fingers tremble a little more noticeable as they fidget with the creases in his clothing. "Why not?" His voice has the same feel as a finely tuned piano string—faintly vibrating, taut, and high strung.

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"That's not a reason."

"You don't have a reason for everything _you_ do," L snaps.

Light is not cowed, as he might have been other days. "Just because you can't understand it, doesn't mean that there isn't a reason."

L starts to answer, but then draws his hasty, furious reply back in a takes a deep breath. He chooses to ignore the fact that Light rolls his eyes when he does this. "Okay," he says, speaking softly. "Can you tell me why you want those particular videos?"

"Like you don't already know," Light sneers. He's refusing to look at L, which is really one of the most infuriating things L is having to deal with at this point. "I'm trying to relearn everything I've forgotten—all the social norms and gestures and expressions. And _I _used to know what I was doing. I used to be good at it."

"At lying." L's monochrome voice leaves no room for argument.

Light shrugs. "Call it whatever you want. I still want that footage."

L thinks for a brief moment, and then smiles. "Fine, I propose a trade then. You want the footage, and I want to know where B is."

He watches for Light's reaction. Nothing but a small narrowing of the eyes, which sends a jolt of fear down L's spine. When did Light learn how to _act_ again? "Do you know where he might have hidden himself?"

"Why would I know something like that?" Light asks.

"Light-kun told me that B told him where he would go."

Light shrugs, a delayed reaction, and turns back to his computer screen. "That was years ago, L," he says. "I can tell you what he told me, but I doubt he's there anymore."

"And what did he tell you?"

"He said he'd head to Wammy House first," Light says. "He told me that he had unfinished business there and that he'd left a few articles that he needed to retrieve there."

L hesitates, then asks, "Why would B tell you something like that?"

Light glances at him, and L can tell that he hasn't been fooled by L's attempt to drive the conversation away from the video footage he wants. "Why do you care?" he finally asks, and L silently curses Light for turning distraction tactics back on him. "The last time I mentioned him, you were hostile and bitter."

"B is a part of my past that I would just as soon forget," L says honestly.

"He didn't like you much either," Light says, his voice emotionless as he stares at his computer screen.

"Did you speak to him often?"

This time Light turns to face L. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

L takes a deep breath to keep himself from snapping at Light again and then exhales quickly when he hears Light laugh softly, cruelly.

"What are you afraid of, L?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm. "Are you afraid of getting angry with me, or of being too honest?" Beneath that calm, Light is beginning to come undone.

This time L does snap at him. "One of us has to be stable," is what he says, and instead of making Light cringe, the comment makes him smile further.

"You're right," Light acquiesces. "God forbid you actually turn out to be a real person with actual emotions."

L knows that Light is trying to goad him and make him angry; the problem is, it's working. After everything L has had to deal with, and the fact that he has to hide _all _of it from Light right now, L has finally run out of patience. "Light-kun does not know what he is talking about in regards to my emotions," he says quietly.

"Guilt doesn't count as an emotion, L," Light taunts, and L turns fully to face him, shocked. "It's a state of being. People _are_ guilty. Juries announce that people _are_ guilty or innocent; they don't say that someone _feels_ guilty. You either are or you're not."

"I'm sure that Kira would know what he is talking about when it comes to guilt," L says flippantly, his anger beginning to boil over. He has been having a bit of a rough day, since he only just found out about Crowley, and now B, and now Light is pressing buttons L didn't even know he had.

Light flinches when he says that, and L feels dark satisfaction when he does. His lips curve up the tiniest bit as he tries to suppress a grin.

"You're a liar; go to hell."

"Yeah, well, you're a murderer, Kira; so which one of us do you think is more likely to go to hell?"

"You bastard!" Light snarls. He's half out of his chair, and L is tense, defensive, already standing. Light has only physically attacked him once since he's been living here, and it did more damage to Light's recovering ankles than it did to L. "Why are you so damn condescending all the time?"

"I'm not." L's face is expressionless, except for the cold gleam in his eyes as he sizes Light up.

"You treat me like a child!"

L pins him with a fiery gaze. "Someone has to be the adult in this relationship," he says coldly, words meant to sting and bite.

It works. Light's jaw tightens as he sinks back down in his chair. And while he fights to keep his expression blank, his eyes are alight with fury and helpless pain. "I hate you," he finally says, his voice choked with emotion.

"Today you do," L sneers. "Tomorrow, you might love me. The next day, you could be amused by me, or irritated." L notices that as he speaks, Light begins to tremble, but the words keep coming, keep spilling out of his mouth and he is helpless to stop them. Hell, even he doesn't know where he's going with this rant anymore. "I can never count on what you say, because it can change faster than I can blink. But do you know, it doesn't matter, because you can feel anything you want about me and it doesn't matter because no matter what, you _need_ me."

With a snarl, Light darts forward and hits him full across the face. L's response to the pain is automatic, and he kicks out. Suddenly they're fighting much like they used to, except that Light is trembling and when he lands another punch, L can tell that he is not holding back because _damn _it hurts and blood begins to flow as Light breaks the skin on his knuckles and on L's jaw.

Light is furious, he is trembling—how _dare_ L treat him like this, say those things (those _horribly_ true things) to him? He knows it is dangerous but he lets his anger drive him and he swings harder, not even feeling the blows that L deals back because he is past feeling any physical pain at this point.

Everything is just this blackness in his chest (and Crowley is _alive_ and L didn't tell him, and where the _hell_ does B come into all this anyway); there's too much in his mind and he can feel himself breaking until he stops fighting entirely—because the cracks in his mind have swallowed him whole and he no longer remembers where he is at all.

_Nighttime and so black Light was shivering and everything was red pain all over. He rolled onto his side as he tried to sleep, but nothing came, he felt too sick. _

_He heard the door open and barely stopped himself from screaming because even though he could see nothing, he could hear footsteps and Crowley couldn't be back. It was too soon._

"_Light."_

_The single word, whispered into a quiet cell, made him simultaneously shiver and flinch. That was not Crowley's voice. He considered not answering, but decided that it would be worse if B thought he was asleep. _

"_B, how did you get in here?"_

_Soft laughter, and more almost inaudible footsteps as B approached his bed. "Shhh," he said, and Light could tell that he was very close. He shivered again. _

"_There are cameras in here," Light told him. _

"_I don't care," B answered. "They can't see anything."_

"_They can hear everything." Light wasn't sure if he were reminding B or himself. _

"_I don't care," B repeated. The small cot dipped as B knelt on the bed, and Light tried to sit up, to be a bit more on level with B. _

_B's hands searched blindly for his shoulders, found them, and then pushed him down. Light went willingly enough because his muscles were still screaming in pain from the drugs Crowley had injected. He flinched, though, when he felt B's cheek against his and B's breath next to his ear. _

"_Don't say anything," B said, voice barely audible. _

_Light . . . didn't. He lay where he was, staring into blackness that was no lighter than the insides of his eyelids and waited to see what B would do. There was . . . nothing else. He had no more fight. Nothing left with which to fight. _

_B's grip tightened on his shoulders and Light's breathing became louder, despite himself. As he gasped, B whispered again. "Crowley let me in. He thinks I want to hurt you."_

"_Do you?" Light asked, then almost cursed as B's nails dug into the taught skin of his shoulder, drawing blood through the thin fabric of his shirt. _

"_Yes." _

_Light's breath caught in his throat. "Why?" _

_Whatever answer Light had expected, it was not to feel B's teeth at the junction of his neck and shoulder, biting down hard, drawing more blood, which B leaned down and lapped at. Still, other than an initial flinch at the sudden pain, Light didn't move. "Why?" he whispered again. _

_Finally, B pulled away but still kept a tight grip on Light's shoulders. "I don't have a reason," he said. "I don't need one. I want to." He paused. "Don't take it so personally, Light."_

_Light moved then, reached a hand up and tugged on B's shirt until B's cheek was pressed to his again. And this time, Light whispered in his ear. "Do you think you could kill me?"_

_B's laughter rang in the tiny cell. "I know I could," he said._

"_Do it."_

_Silence._

"_Please." _

"_I was right, then?" B murmured. "What I said earlier. The great Kira wanted to die—wants to die?"_

"_Please, B."_

_B laughed again and his hands trailed up Light's shoulders onto his neck, where they fit around his throat and rested there, barely pressing at all. "It would hurt," he said._

"_Everything hurts anyway."_

_B's thumb traced Light's windpipe, skirting up and down the ridges. "You are so vulnerable right now," he whispered, and Light could hear a hitch in his voice. _

_Light didn't care. "Please." _

"_Begging me now, are you?" B's voice was pitched low as one of his hands moved up and traced the features of his face. Light became aware that B's breathing had deepened, and he wondered what he was thinking about. _

_Light flinched and was silent. He knew his begging was shameless, and he knew that, if he lived to see the morning, he would be deeply ashamed. _

_And then B moved so he was kneeling over Light, much as he had that afternoon. This time, though, Light could feel his knees pressed tight to his hips and with one hand around his neck and the other still tracing patterns on his face. "Please what?"_

"_Kill me," Light said, his voice very small in the darkness. _

"_Say it again."_

"_Please kill me, B."_

_Silence, and then B's laughter again, echoed everywhere. He leaned down and his face was only an inch away from Light's when he spoke, breath washing warm over Light's lips as he waited, trembling for his answer. "No," he said, and then Light felt the cool pain of something sharp and metal biting into the skin along his collarbone. _

_He flinched. "Stop it," he said. "Stop it and get out, if you won't." _

_The blade dug in deeper and Light felt the peculiar sensation of blood trickling, pooling in the hollow of his throat. And then B leaned in and ran his tongue along it again. "Mmm," he purred, biting at the skin as he licked it clean. _

"_Stop," Light said, his voice ringing with panic._

_He felt B's lips on his again, and he could taste his own blood on them. B stayed there for longer than he had that morning, and Light tried to push him away with arms that still ached from his torture earlier. "No," B whispered, breath ghosting over Light's damp lips. _

"_Why are you doing this?" Light demanded. _

_Their chests were so close that Light could feel B's laughter and he suddenly realized that he was trembling violently underneath B. An instant later, he realized that he couldn't stop. _

"_I like the way you taste," B said, and descended with his knife and his mouth again. _

* * *

When Light comes to, the first thing he notices is that it's dark outside his window. The second thing he notices are his own pained gasps and whimpers, which he makes an effort to stop immediately. The third thing is that he is sitting up in his bed, with L behind him, arms wrapped loosely around him.

He jerks away. "Get off, L," Light says, his frame still trembling violently. _God, L and B look so much alike . . . _

L holds up his hands in a defensive gesture. "I will not touch you if that is what you want," he says. _They even sound alike . . ._

"What time is it?" _Everything he'd done that night . . . God, Light didn't even like to think about it__. Not just what B had done to him, but what he'd gotten Light to do . . . _

"It's only about 5:30 p.m. How do you feel?"

"Fine." _And yet . . . despite that, B had almost been his friend—j__ust like how L was almost his friend, and almost . . . something else. _

"Ah, about this afternoon, Light-kun. I'm—"

"Don't you dare apologize to me," Light snaps. His nerves are shot; he has nothing left in him except this despair. "Don't, because I'm not sorry and you aren't either and we both meant everything we said, so even if we were; it doesn't matter." _I'm so tired and sometimes I can't even tell them apart and it's driving me insane . . . _

L is silent, though he does pull his knees up to his chest and gnaws at his thumb as he regards Light through dark, passionless eyes.

And Light has to look away because one more minute of staring at L's face is going to make him want to either kiss him or kill him.

And he can't do either of those yet—because he must remember Crowley, he must remember how L _lied_ to him about Crowley, and how he _will _find him.

* * *

A/N: WOAH that chapter took a long time to get up! Sorry you guys, my goodness I'm shocked that it's been so long! I didn't mean to make you wait; it's been a crazy week and while I haven't been that stressed, I think I just . . . lost track of the time!

That being said, I don't have much else to report. Please please please review--it makes me feel like the world is a better place when you do! Remember, every time you read this chapter and don't review, a puppy gets kicked.

Think of the puppies, you guys.


	4. Complication

**Part 04 – Complication**

**Edited and Reposted 11.13.09**

**

* * *

**Light never has trouble sleeping. Or at least, very rarely. Or, rather . . .

Frankly, the sentence should be amended entirely, and then there wouldn't be so many exceptions.

Light never has trouble falling asleep. By the time the end of the day rolls around (usually at about midnight or one), he is dead on his feet and blinking often, occasionally even biting down on fingertips to keep himself awake.

He already feels like L is just humoring him by babysitting him all the time; so it comes as no surprise that he tries to interrupt L's work and irregular sleep schedule as little as possible.

So by the time L finally does realize or decide that they need to go to bed, Light is generally more than ready. They go through their nighttime routine—brushing teeth, pyjamas, medicine in Light's case and sometimes, in L's case, a shower—which is so normal and so much like what they used to go through every night that Light's chest sort of aches when he lets himself think about it for too long.

When they finally do settle into bed, Light, aided by medication and mental exhaustion that comes from trying to keep his thoughts in order and logic-driven all day, slips into an easy sleep. And he stays that way for a few hours, until of course the nightmares start.

In this one way, L envies Light. No, not true. There are several reasons why L envies Light, but this is one of the most prominent. L does not stay awake working because he enjoys it and doesn't feel tired. He feels the exhaustion as keenly as the next person, but his mind rarely lets him stop working. There is too much to think about, too many circles of logic and thoughts to peruse, too much weighing so heavy on him that his limbs feel dead and he wishes even harder that he could sleep.

Instead, L pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps arms loosely around them—a childish pose, but a comforting one—and he watches Light.

Light is most at peace, and consequently most like his old self, when he sleeps. L is fascinated by the way his eyes flicker underneath the lids or how his hands and feet twitch, just barely, as he slips into the REM cycle. L watches the minute expressions on Light's still-sweet face as they flash past almost too quickly for him to catch. He notices the rise and fall of Light's chest as he breathes, and each time Light inhales, L exhales, because he is so relieved that Light is still alive, still breathing easy.

It stays like this for a few hours, and in that time, L himself usually slips in and out of consciousness, usually while still sitting up. There have been a few occasions where he has actually laid down and gotten a good solid night's rest, but those incidents have been few and far between.

L is always startled into full wakefulness, however, when Light's nightmares start. There is no pattern to the symptoms of these terrors. Sometimes Light's gentle twitching becomes more defined, sometimes he'll start shivering. And then there are the verbal cues. Very rarely does Light actually talk in his sleep. Generally it's just stressed mumblings or even pained whimpers. And sometimes, he'll just start screaming, which has scared the shit out of L on more than one occasion.

L doesn't wake him. He doesn't because he's figured out that unless he allows the nightmare-memory to play out, the next time Light falls asleep, it is right there, waiting to be picked up again, like a film put on pause.

And besides, L hardly needs to wake Light, since Light does it himself within a few minutes of those symptoms. Sometimes he'll jerk awake with wide, unseeing eyes. Sometimes it takes a few tries and a lot of blinking before Light drags himself through the murky waters of medication and sleep deprivation and breaks the surface of consciousness. Sometimes his own screaming is so loud he wakes himself up.

L used to hold him during these nightmares—because it used to help him, and he used to be able to fall back asleep in L's loose embrace once the horror of the dream-memory had faded a bit. But gradually, gradually . . . it stopped working. Light became more defensive and embarrassed and . . . well, frightened seems too strong a word, but L doesn't know what else to call the quiet, panicked emotion that sometimes flashes through Light's eyes when he wakes to find L holding him.

And now, Light is becoming sensitive to touch altogether. He flinches when L so much as lays a hand on his shoulder or even when he sits very close. L has sought in vain to find the cause, to discover why Light has made this slow transition from desperate kisses in the middle of the night, which they had done together a few times after Light had been released from the hospital, to starting when L brushes gentle fingers across his palm.

And the strangest part of it all is that sometimes when he does come into physical contact with him, L can see the conflict in Light's expression and body language—he can see that Light is fighting himself, likely arguing internally, but over what L cannot tell. L can never know, then, if Light pulls away from him because L's touch now disgusts him or because of his own shame or fear or personal code.

It's all very difficult and, in L's opinion, needlessly complicated.

However, the fact still remains that one good thing comes out of all of it, and it is that L does fall asleep easier when he's listening to Light's easy breathing.

Which is why he's having no luck whatsoever in the sleep department tonight.

L doesn't like being away from Light. It makes him nervous and jittery and from what Watari told him, Light acts similarly in L's absence. He's only ever had to leave the house a few times to work on cases alone, and then it was usually just for a day or two. He would leave Light with Watari for whatever reason—generally because the case he was working on was the legal case for the higher-ups at Crowley's Institute.

He had to leave this time, though. He had a strong lead on where Crowley was and he needed to be there, studying the evidence himself, since he doesn't trust the officers he's working with to catch every little detail L knows that Crowley would have put in there. He'd had to go—it was inexcusable not to.

Light, who was too used to L's intermittent leaves of absence to make a big deal of it, had reacted surprisingly well when L told him that he had to leave the country for a few days.

L sighs and stares again at the ceiling. It has 12 identical and symmetric cracks all lined up near the center. He can tell that sleep is not coming, that he will just waste his time waiting and counting sheep. With another sigh, he leans over the side of the cheap hotel bed and retrieves his laptop, which he uses to delve into the internet and police headquarters' mainframe. He wonders briefly what Light might be doing, but decides quickly that that train of thought is just worrisome and depressing and he actually misses Light, even though all they do lately is fight. And even though L's only been gone for a few days.

Shaking his head to clear it, L focuses on the screen. He needs to get some work done or his lead and subsequent excursion will have been for nothing.

* * *

Light is justifiably anxious. L is gone. He's working on a case involving the man that made five years of his life hell, and what's more, this old house that seems so comfortable when L is there to fill it now seems dark and too big, too empty.

But when Light meanders into the living room the morning after L has left, he's startled to see a shock of red hair over the edge of the couch. And when he gets closer, he is considerably less surprised to see that it belongs to Matt, who is sort of sitting/reclining/falling off of the sofa as he wrestles with a handheld. As he walks around to sit into one of the armchairs, Light turns his head to read—yes, it's a Nintendo product, and yes, Matt is playing Mario. Again.

Matt doesn't glance at him, but Light can see a flicker of his eyes that means he's aware of Light. Light doesn't mind so much being ignored; it's actually something of a relief after the intense scrutiny he's generally constantly under. Finally, the little handheld emits a little _ding_ of victory, and Matt grins and looks up.

"Hey," he says.

"Are you my babysitter?" Light asks, his voice sarcastic.

Matt considers. "Would you feel better if I glossed it over or would you prefer a straight _yes_?"

"I'll take the straight—no, you know what? Why don't you try glossing it over, I'd like to see that," Light decides.

Matt grins, but then his face becomes very serious. "Light, don't be ridiculous," he says. "L knows that you don't need a babysitter. I'm here in case anything goes horribly wrong. Don't mind me though—it's not as though I'll be checking in on you every hour per L's instructions. Just go about your typical business."

"That was a terrible attempt at sugar-coating it," Light tells him, relaxing back into the chair. "Now, would you prefer to have to comb the house for me or would you give me a bit more freedom if I let you know where I'm going?"

"Option 2," Matt decides immediately. "L worries too much."

"I know. I'll head to the kitchen for some breakfast in a bit and then I'll be outside on the grounds for an hour or two. I like to walk in the mornings."

"'Kay," Matt says, eyes already back to his game as he selects a new level. "At what point should I panic and start running around like a headless chicken?"

"Never," Light says firmly. "At no point should you run around like a headless chicken."

"Well, then, at what point should I begin looking for you, making sure that you haven't died?" Matt asks, voice somewhat distant as his fingers begin flashing over the handheld.

"If you don't hear from me by noon, you can press the emergency fail safe button," Light says wearily. "I'll check in with you by then."

Matt pauses the game to smile at him. "Hey, look," he says, "I'm sorry about all this. But thanks for not making it harder than it has to be. I'm not gonna hover, okay? I don't even have to really leave this room if you'll check in like you said."

"Okay," Light says, almost smiling.

"How are you?" Matt asks. "And L?"

Light shrugs. "Okay, I guess. Not much difference." If Matt notices the frustration in his voice, he doesn't say anything about it. "How's Mello?" Light continues, remembering the little he's learned about small talk.

"Okay," Matt says, lips curving into a contented smile which Light is almost sure he's unaware of. "He's getting really pissy because he's on another case with Near."

"I thought he was in the Mafia," Light says.

"For a bit," Matt confirms. "But it gets old and after awhile, you just don't want any more blood on your hands. It was making him a little crazy."

Light has to fight down a laugh at Matt's words, and instead just allows himself to smile. "He has a conscience?" he asks.

Matt shrugs. "I guess," he says. "He was pretty religious before he came to Wammy's, and even there, he always prayed."

Light frowns, considering this. "Why did he get into that business in the first place, then?" he asks.

"Part of it was getting back at L," Matt tells him. "L chose Near over Mello as his successor, and Mello didn't want to live as a second-best detective or Near's subordinate. So he did something that he knew Near could never top and something L couldn't judge him on."

"And now?"

"It's like I said. It was weighing on him, and it gets really . . . depressing after awhile. More than depressing. Being submersed in violence, getting used to killing people with your own hands . . . it cheapens everybody's life, including your own. You get to the point where you don't care how dangerous something is, because your life doesn't matter. You almost hope you do die."

Light stares at him for a moment. Matt spoke casually, his expression light. "I see," he finally says.

Matt flashes him a grin. "Sorry," he says. "I'm sure you already knew all that."

Light almost just nods and walks out, but then he remembers the social skills he's trying to learn, so he gives Matt a faint smile. "I suppose I did," he says.

"I get used to analyzing other people's emotions—or Mello's, at least," Matt explains. "He feels a lot, and very strongly, but he isn't in the habit of expressing it other than with violence."

"I suppose it's lucky he has you then," Light says.

Matt's lips curve a little higher. "I've never thought of it that way," he says. "I'm usually just glad to be along for the ride."

"I'm going to get breakfast," Light says, changing the subject once his patience for small talk runs out. "Do you want anything?"

"I'm all right," Matt says, voice distant as he devotes most of his attention to the game again. "I ate already."

Light is almost out of the room when he remembers. "Oh, you can smoke in here if you want. L doesn't like it, but I don't really care."

"Thanks," Matt says, pulling out the carton and lighting up.

Light nods and walks out.

* * *

Thanks to Matt's nonchalance and inattention, by and large, Light is alone. He's surprised that L has allowed him this degree of freedom, particularly after the all the arguing and tension between them over the past week. And even before Light found out that L was a _liar_, their relationship had been . . . strained.

Light is increasingly struck by both the similarities and the dichotomy between L and B. In the beginning, when L first broke him out of Crowley's Light didn't even think about B. He hadn't seen him in nearly two years at that point after all—since when he'd refused to speak, Crowley had confined him to his room.

Of course, Light had thought that L was B when he'd first come to visit Light's cell. He'd taken in the white t-shirt and jeans and had wondered where B had gotten the clothes, and why Crowley would let him wear them at all. But although their voices were similar—both deep, both emotionless—L's held a warm humanity that B's words couldn't grasp.

But after that first meeting, after Light realized that it really was _L _he was seeing, not the imitation, he'd pushed B out of his thoughts altogether.

And during the first year or so living with L, Light hadn't thought much about B either. How could he? He was too focused on daily life and finding a medication that worked and trying to keep himself from flying to pieces to visit the past more than he did in his nightmares.

Gradually, though, B and other memories from the Institute crept into his mind, even when he tried to staunch the flow of thought. Gradually, his dreams held more and more of B, the imitation, the creation—who wasn't as good as L, but who he had accepted when L was no longer available to him. And gradually that started affecting the way he saw L, too. He would move to kiss him and find that an image of B, grinning and crouching on the bed, was in front of him. He'd recoil, and L would look confused, and it just wasn't worth the trouble or the pain.

Now, Light has trouble with the two identities. It isn't as though he can't tell them apart—he's not that far gone. But B was every bit as important to Light as L had been, albeit in a completely different way. In fact, Light had spent more time with B than he ever had with L, since he had seen him consistently for three years.

B had been . . . terrifying. Exhilarating. Alarming. Entertaining. Twisted, intelligent; torture, his only reprieve—the list of opposites went on and on. B was accessible where L was closed; he was strong in areas that L refused to address; he was the shadow, and L was the figure. That list of dichotomies went on too.

Light shakes his head a bit to clear it and turns back to focus on the computer screen in front of him. He finished hacking L's computer an hour ago and now all that remains is to sort through the cryptic information to find out anything and everything he can about Crowley's case. In the back of his mind, Light thinks that L likely didn't tell him because he didn't want him to panic or get hurt—but that is his voice of reason, and it is often lost or crushed amidst all the other opinions and voices and sides.

Light skims the document in front of him, trying to ignore how his eyes feel heavy and how his body seems unwilling to move. He glances at the clock and his eyes widen in surprise. It is nearing one a.m., which means that he's been working for nearly twelve hours straight at this point. Light considers going to the kitchen to get something to eat, but eventually decides that it is too much effort for too little satisfaction.

So instead, he stands and heads towards the bathroom where he washes and brush his teeth and takes his pills dutifully, grimacing only very slightly as the water he swallows them with sloshes a bit in his stomach. Whenever he takes them, the pills always feel a bit stuck in his throat—but after much consideration and examination, Light realizes that the pills aren't stuck. He's just feeling the shame and frustration at having to live on three different medications.

He pauses, and then showers too, just for the hell of it. He showered earlier that day—or, rather, early yesterday, but warm, running water has always comforted and relaxed him. It even works now, to some degree. He takes his time with the shower; usually he speeds through his cleansing routine, since he knows that L is waiting for him to begin working. And Light already feels ashamed enough that he is encroaching on L's life—he doesn't need another reason to irritate L or throw him off schedule.

Now, though, with no L and no pressure, Light washes his hair, soaps down, and then when everything essential has been taken care of, he just stands under the forceful spray of the showerhead, letting the water run down him, relax his muscles, even calm his barely-twitching fingers. Once the water is completely cold, Light reluctantly steps out of the shower and dresses for bed before heading slowly to the room he shares with L.

Light isn't completely delusional; he knows that he's just stalling, putting off going to a very empty room that L should be in but isn't (because he's working on a case thousands of miles away; a case that should be Light's but _isn't_).

As angry as he is with L, and as focused as he is to finding Crowley, Light still feels very empty as he slips into his side of the bed. Realizing that he has a great deal of extra room in the now too-big bed, he moves to lay in the middle, tries it for a bit, and then scoots back over to his usual place. The middle feels too strange, too lonely.

And quite apart from missing L . . . this house really does scare him to some degree. He knows that he's just being paranoid, but he can't help it. The corners are eerily dark, there are strange noises all throughout the house, and the emptiness and shadows send little shivers down his spine. He doesn't like being alone, and especially not at night, when he is made to feel vulnerable because of his nightmares.

With all the odds stacked against him, Light is pleased and surprised when he begins to drift almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

And then the dreams start.

_This time, it was raining, hard; too much for the prisoners to be allowed outside. But they were allowed one hour inside the main eating area to run around or talk or, in most people's cases, try to escape and/or maim the guards._

_Light did none of this. He sat calmly at the table next to B, his hand raising every so often to press cool fingers to the hot burning feeling on his throat, where B had bit him a few days previous._

_B's eyes followed the progress of Light's fingers with focused attention, and when Light realized what he was doing, he dropped the hand immediately. _

"_I know you didn't work alone," B was saying. "I know you must have had an accomplice, because L said so, and I don't know that he makes mistakes like that."_

"_So?" Light asked, making eye contact though he had to push some hair out of his face to do so. _

"_So who was it?"_

_Light grimaced as he thought for the first time in years about Misa. "Fuck off, B," he said, no real emotion behind the words. _

"_I take it you don't want to tell me, then?" B asked, after he'd finished laughing. "A sensitive subject, perhaps?"_

"_Don't make me repeat myself," Light said dully. After the visit B had visited his cell a few days ago, Light had been . . . justifiably nervous—actually, justifiably terrified and absolutely disinclined to entertain his questions and quirks. _

_B moved closer to him, and when Light visibly flinched at their proximity, he laughed again. He lifted his fingers to trace lazy patterns on Light's throat as Light watched him through suspicious, frightened eyes. _

"_I don't suppose there's anything I could do to convince you to leave me the hell alone?" Light asked._

"_I want to hear about that accomplice of yours, Light. Who you deemed . . . worthy to carry on your noble cause," B said, sarcasm dripping and stinging. _

"_Shut up, B," Light said dully, looking away. _

_B's fingers tightened where they had been loosely around his neck. "No," he murmured, and Light stared at him for a moment before trying to jerk away. B's grip tightened. "Tell me, and then I won't have any questions left for you today."_

_Light's breath was already catching slightly at the oxygen deprivation, and he took as deep a breath as he could before he said, "I didn't."_

_B's fingers loosened a little. "You didn't what?" he asked. _

"_Choose," Light said, jerking away again. This time, B let him get to a distance at which he felt fairly comfortable. _

"_Who did?" B wanted to know._

_Light hesitated only the barest second before he sighed and answered—it wasn't as though this mattered anymore. "No one," he said. "She found a Death Note all on her own. She found me all on her own too. I was more or less blackmailed into working with her."_

_B moved a bit closer. "Oh?" he asked, the breathed question punctuated with a brief giggle._

"_Well, I couldn't very well allow her to go to the police or make any other stupid mistakes. And if I tried to just kill her to get rid of the problem altogether, she had . . . protection."_

"_Interesting," B said, and Light suddenly realized that they were sitting close together again. He gave B a level gaze. "B."_

_B's eyes were locked with his as he cocked his head to one side in a way horribly reminiscent of L. "Hmm?" he asked. Light looked down and away. Most of the time, he was grateful in a horribly twisted way, that B was very much like L, but right now, he found himself hating the resemblance._

"_Fuck off," he murmured, his voice sounding weak even to himself. _

_B lowered his head until his face was scant inches away from Light's. "No," he said, sounding satisfied. "I do what I want. I always have."_

* * *

An hour or so later, Light manages to drag himself into consciousness. The dreams he keeps having about B are in such accurate detail, down to the angle of his head, the feeling of the pads of his fingers.

Light shivers and reaches for the glass of water that he keeps on the nightstand for just such an occasion. Instead of hard marble and cool glass, however, his fingers encounter something warm, pliable, soft. He almost flinches back, but realizes that L must be back.

Yes, there. He can barely make out L's figure in the dark gloom of the room, and as he watches, L comes around to his side of the bed and sinks down next to him in his usual crouch.

"How did everything go?" Light asks, voice sounding weaker than he had meant for it to be. He clears his throat and tries again. "Did you solve the case?" L had better not have solved that case or Light is going to be pissed and he's going to have to take extreme measures, which he has meticulously avoided doing so far.

L doesn't respond; he just cocks his head to one side and regards Light with dark eyes.

Light looks at L's eyes closer, opening his wider to improve visibility. L's eyes are . . . different. Darker. He doesn't know quite what to make of it, but he doesn't have sufficient time to consider because L trails thin fingers down his cheek and then leans over and kisses him.

Light doesn't know quite what to make of it. L's behavior is strange to say the least. But his lips feel very warm and very nice against his, and his hands are gentle on Light's jaw and throat. Tentatively, Light allows himself to relax, and opens his mouth slightly, which is when everything changes.

Suddenly, L's hands are no longer gentle and the kiss is rough, possessive, and now Light just wants out because there is one other thing horribly wrong with it.

The kiss tastes like blood.

When the thought surfaces and connects with memories and a spiderweb of emotions and pain, Light pushes away and sits up straight in bed. He is breathing hard and he makes an effort to calm himself before he speaks.

When he has finally stopped taking in gulps of air, he just says one letter.

"B."

And although he can't see it, Light can hear B's smile in his answer. "You taste different," B says. And laughs.

* * *

A/N: Why hello my friends (and possibly enemies . . . )! Here's the latest installment of As the World Turns. Or, y'know. Silence. Whichever. I've realized that I haven't been putting disclaimers on here. Is that bad? Am I going to be arrested by the Internets Police?

We'll see, dear readers. P.S. This time I'm threatening kitties, per several people instructions. If you don't review, the kitties will suffer. Think about it.


	5. B

**Part 05 – B**

**Edited and Reposted as of 11.18.09**

**

* * *

**Light is beautiful.

B can see it—in the curve of his smooth lips, the symmetry that is his prominent cheekbones and his arching eyebrows, in his soft skin, in the angular body—he can see all the reasons other people would think Light is beautiful.

He can see why, too, people would be drawn to him—his personality, even weathered and beaten as it was when B first met him, is enticing. There seemed to be something warm about him, even when in reality everything there was cold cold cold.

It is in Light's eyes. They are warm, observant, almond-shaped and golden. They are quick to look and then see—see through a person, see right into the heart of an issue.

Yes, Light is beautiful. Even to B, Light is beautiful.

But not for those reasons. Not so much in how he looks, or even what he does—it is what he _is_.

Light was twisted even before he came to the asylum; and under Crowley's deft hands and careful attentions, he'd become more than B could have hoped to have encountered in that institute they had sent him to to rot.

Before Light came to the asylum, he was a murderer—and Light knew it, too, no matter how he tried to deny it. But in there, he became a killer. Before, Light was ruthless. Now, he is cruel. Before, human life meant little to Light. Now, human lives quite literally mean the same as pieces on a chessboard.

With one notable exception, of course.

And B can't fault Light for that, because B himself has a weakness for L. Anyone who'd had the rare experience of meeting him generally had a weakness for him. And B knows why, he can analyze L too—he can see the carefully balanced insight and naivety that L uses as an incredibly effective shield. Light wants L, and B wants to beat him. Both of their ultimate goals revolve around the quirky, beautiful creature that is L Lawliet. Both of their _lives _revolve around him.

And L only returns the favor to one of them.

When B is having one of his quieter moments, he can reflect and see the answer as to why, staring at him in the mirror. Light is beautiful. And B is a reflection. And why would someone like L, who has tremulous self-image at best, want someone that only reminds himself of his own weaknesses in such a vivid, obtrusive way?

And thankfully B does not want L, not the way Light does, not in so many words. He wants to be above him, better, he wants to see L beaten. In any way possible. Emotionally, physically, sexually, spiritually. Anything B can get, he will take.

Now Light . . . Light is something that B wants. Not, again, in the same way Light wants L—not to keep, not to savor. To have him. To possess him.

So that L cannot.

Upon reflection, B comes to the conclusion that possibly the greatest way of defeating L would be to make him lose Light. If B has Light, then L can't. If Light chooses B . . .

It could destroy L.

B's lips curve as he thinks that. His feet pad silently on the soft, carpeted floor of the hallway. Absently, he lets one of his hands reach towards the wall, fingers trailing along the smooth wood. The other hand is near his mouth and he chews at his thumb as he walks. It is only when he reaches Light's door that he realizes that he's bitten clean through the skin and his smile widens into a grin as he laps at the blood that's dripping steadily onto the lovely tapestry that adorns the cool tiled floors.

Good—it tastes good, but it's not enough. Light's blood—now that taste is unique. Perhaps it is different now, B imagines that it is. L will undoubtedly have him on medication, and that will alter the chemicals flowing in his system. Perhaps his blood will be more bitter than sweet? Perhaps the metallic taste—like old coins—will over power the heady, syrupy taste that is almost like strawberries . . .

B pauses outside Light's door, head cocked and listening. The door is cracked and he can hear light, unsettled breathing—Light is likely sleeping fitfully now that L is gone. B considers for a moment. L has been gone for at least 24 hours, and since he's likely had Light on suicide watch (and for good reason too), L wouldn't have left him alone with just Mr. Wammy.

And if B remembers correctly (and he's sure he does, he knows he does), Mr. Wammy actually left for the orphanage last evening.

L would not leave Light to his own devices for twenty minutes, let alone an entire night.

There must be someone else here.

B considers that, and cocks his head to the side again as he listens and begins to walk slow down the long hallway of mahogany oak doors.

As he takes slow, measured paces, he wonders whom L would leave Light with. He blinks as he recalls seeing that blonde creature he remembered from so long ago, running down the hallway at Crowley's Institute just before Light's escape. His name in blazing red letters—Mihael Keehl. Mello, B remembers. He'd known him very briefly when he was just a little child with a much longer lifespan than what he had at the asylum.

It couldn't be Mello, B muses, since he should have been dead a little over year ago.

Though, Mello was one of those rare humans whose lifespan fluctuated and flickered with every other step, every stray thought affecting him and making it nearly impossible to know if he would live eighty years or eighteen minutes longer. B remembers that when Mello had first arrived, his lifespan had been tiny, miniscule. He'd considered killing him himself, since it was obvious that he only had days left. Even if B couldn't see the damning little numbers above his head, he could see the sickly stretch of skin across his cheekbones, and the yellow tint around eyes that looked too wide.

More than that, though, B could see the madness lurking just under those beautiful blue eyes. B remembers watching those eyes and _wanting _them, wanting to look into them for as long as he needed to root out Mihael Keehl's secrets. He also remembers wanting to hold them, imagining cradling them in his palms as Mello's too-thin body writhed, bloody and dying by B's hand.

He did neither back then, mostly because he'd still hoped to be L's Backup. He'd known that that kind of behavior was unacceptable, though why, he'd never been able to fathom. Mihael Keehl was going to die, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Why shouldn't B get those beautiful, frightened, so so angry eyes?

And then—and B had never seen this before and it had so startled him that he'd nearly fallen out of his chair—Mello's lifespan had begun spiking up, steadily, by increments of years and years. B had stared, wondering what Mello was doing, what he could be thinking. He was just sitting there, intently glaring at the little white-haired child that B remembers so well, too well (and as a brief caveat, he wonders if Nate River is still alive, or if he's dead now like his lifespan had suggested he would be).

B had turned his head, scanning the room, looking for something, however subtle that could be causing Mello's lifespan to _increase_. B had seen spans decrease, of course—everything was just a countdown to an inevitable conclusion. He had even seen them spike downwards when people made stupid, spur-of-the-moment decisions.

But this—this was something special. B's eyes flitted around the room, eventually stopping on another child, just a bit younger than Mello—Mail Jeevas.

Ah, yes. Matt. He was brilliant, and so close to B in scores that B was actually frightened by his eerily perceptive eyes and his carefree expressions. B knew that it was only Matt's young age that kept him from becoming the top candidate at the school, just as Near's youth (he was only four, after all) kept him from competing fairly.

And now Matt was taking slow steps towards Mello, his expression unguarded, palms open. B's eyes flickered back to Mello, and his breath caught in one of the first moments of true surprise in his life as he saw Mello's lifespan skip up with every measured step Matt took.

The flickering red letters stilled and stayed, giving Mello twenty more years, as Matt stopped in front of him, and then sat down.

B hadn't heard their conversation, but he had seen how Matt's careful attention had soothed the burning fear and hate that was evident in Mello's every word, his every expression.

It had been fascinating.

B wonders if perhaps it is Matt who is here. He knows Matt the best out those three, mostly because he'd known him the longest. Matt had been brought to Wammy's at just 18 months. At first B had been confused as to why—how could a one-year-old be determined brilliant? But then B had met him, and he understood.

Matt's sweet, high, clear child's voice was undermined by the absence of any lisp or typical stilted tones. What's more, his sentences often went over the heads of his caretakers, and even when he didn't speak, his eyes were always aware, always watching. Further than that, though . . . Matt seemed to know, to understand those who surrounded him. Matt could learn more in watching someone for five minutes than the average person could learn about someone in a lifetime. Even B occasionally felt uncomfortable around him, since it seemed like Matt could see straight into his twisted heart—and what's more, that Matt could _understand_ it.

B glides down the hall further, finally stopping at another door similar to Light's—this one cracked as well, and a little light spills from it into the hallway. B places one hand on the smooth wood and waits for a moment. He can hear a voice, just barely audible, barely there. And, louder than that, he can hear tiny beeps and quiet, tinny childlike music playing softly.

B waits another moment, trying to hear what the quiet voice is saying, but it seems that he's caught whomever it is at the end of a conversation, because he hears a quiet, "'Kay, bye, Mello," and then the sound of a cell phone snapping shut. The volume of the music increases, and B suddenly realizes that it must be a game—a video game.

Matt, then. B's lips quirk up into a grin, and then he pushes the door open.

Matt doesn't move for a moment—he's sitting up in bed, fully dressed, thumbs playing over a handheld—but then his eyes flicker upwards, almost imperceptibly, and then the reaction is instantaneous.

He doesn't scream, or jump, as B had hoped he would. Instead, he tosses the game onto the bedspread next to him and sits up straight and aware, keeping his eyes trained on B.

"B," he says, his voice light, casual, conversational, as though B were expected company who perhaps arrived a few hours early.

B walks into the room slowly, wondering if Matt has defenses set up, or if he truly wasn't expecting anything. He smiles at Matt, and then speaks his name, softly. "Mail," he says, and to his credit, Matt's cool expression doesn't falter.

"L isn't here right now," Matt tells him, kneeling up in bed, in a more defensive position.

"I know," B says, taking another step closer, scanning Matt's clothes for any bulges that could be concealed weapons. He is rarely this cautious, but he knows that Matt could actually be a threat.

Matt's lips quirk up at the corners. "I'll tell him you called, though," he says.

"My," B answers, "haven't you gotten comfortable around murderers?"

"Just a part of my job," Matt says.

B cocks his head to one side, watching Matt watch him. "How have you been, Mail?" he asks.

"Can't complain," Matt says, fingers twitching when B uses his name again. "And you?" he asks.

"I've been better," B says.

"I can imagine," Matt comments. "I take it that therapy didn't sit well with you?"

"About as well as it sat with Light," B says, taking another step forward.

Matt's half-smile reverses itself and now he frowns slightly. "How do you know Light?" he asks.

B's eyes absolutely glitter as he takes another step forward. "You don't know?" he asks. "Does that mean that L doesn't know either?"

Matt reaches into his pocket, and B immediately freezes and considers running. But then Matt glances up at him. "Chill, B," he says, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

"I didn't know you smoked," B says, genuinely curious.

Matt doesn't answer for a moment as he lights up. "I have for years," he finally says.

"Why?"

Matt just looks at him. Then he shrugs. "Dunno," he says.

B closes the distance between Matt and himself and then he crouches on the bed, a few feet away from him. "You seem terribly casual," he says. "Were you expecting me?"

Matt shakes his head, inhaling deep, and B realizes that the cigarette must calm him. "I'm used to all sorts of weird shit happening, though. I figured with you and Crowley and God knows who else out there, something like this was gonna happen."

B glances above his head. Matt's lifespan is solid, the same number it always was, even as a child. It doesn't even flicker as B considers killing him. He wonders briefly what Matt's blood tastes like.

"What are you looking at?" Matt asks, glancing above his own head.

"Your lifespan," B tells him.

Matt doesn't even blink. He takes another long drag on the cigarette. "Oh," he says.

"I think I should probably kill you," B tells him.

Matt doesn't look cowed. "Do you want to?" he asks.

B grins. "Sure," he says.

"What _are_ you doing here?" Matt asks, swapping topics.

B laughs then. He's been holding back giggles this whole conversation—because really, it's so damn _funny_, to be sitting here and chatting with Matt, as though they are old friends. "I'm here for Light," he says as his laughter subsides

"Interesting," Matt says, and his eyes flicker to something above B's own head and B glances to the side—and notices a tiny black lens blinking at him. "Smile," Matt says, gesturing towards the tiny camera. "L's watching."

B does smile—he offers the camera a wide grin over his shoulder and then is startled when he feels what must be Matt's lighter under his fingers.

B doesn't have time to face him again before Matt's fist connects solidly with his skull, nearly knocking him off the bed. B is used to such blows, however, and he springs back up quickly, faster than Matt must have expected because now it is Matt's turn to be surprised as B leans forward, wrapping his hands around Matt's neck, forcing him down onto the bed.

Matt is still for the briefest moments, and then he struggles and B is surprised at his strength—he nearly falls off the bed as Matt grips his shoulders and shoves. But as it is, B regains his balance by shoving Matt's body to the side, and then he hears a delightful, sickening _crack_ as Matt's head connects with the corner of the nightstand and Matt's body goes limp underneath him.

B continues to restrict his air—because although Matt's head is bleeding sluggishly, he breathes still—and would have continued to do so, had he not noticed Matt's cell phone glowing blue in the dim light of the room.

B releases him and then snatches up the phone. He examines the number that Matt has dialed, likely while they were speaking, and then he puts the little device to his ear. "L?" he asks, his voice somewhat breathless from the struggle he just had.

There is no answer, but B does hear a click that signifies that someone has just hung up.

Oh, this is too perfect. B looks regretfully at Matt—if it truly was L on the phone, then he likely has called Wammy by now, which shortens B's window of opportunity down to a little over an hour. L won't have called the police, since this is his safe house, which means that no one knows that it exists. He doesn't have time to finish the kill, and besides, Matt's numbers are still as permanent as ever. But B does lean forward and brushes long, pale fingers along the gash on Matt's skull. He brings the fingers to his mouth and licks delicately.

Good. But then, everyone's blood tastes good.

B grins at this thought and heads back to Light's bedroom.

Yes, B thinks as he pushes the door open, Light is very beautiful, especially with those exquisite scars on his hands and arms and chest—some of them put there by B, others by Light's own doing.

B wonders, as he approaches Light's bed, how close Light and L have gotten, if L has bedded Light yet or if B did his job in fucking over Light's psyche enough that Light can't take it. When Light's fingers brush his arm in their search for the glass of water on the table next to B, and when Light mistakes him for L (_again_), B decides to find out.

Light's movements are hesitant, and B can tell that this makes him nervous (as well it should), but gingerly, he lets B dominate their kiss.

A mistake on Light's part, because there isn't much that B likes more than domination. He presses in, demanding, wondering why Light's mouth would taste different, wondering what L has done with him to change him like this.

That's when Light realizes that B's lips taste like blood—Matt's blood—and Light recoils and backs up against the headboard. "B," he says, finally recognizing him. His voice isn't frightened, exactly, more breathless with surprise, but B can hear the undercurrents of dread running softly through his words.

B says the first thing that comes into his mind, which is, "You taste different," and then he laughs because he knows why. It would be because of the medication that L no doubt has Light on, and he also laughs because this is all working out just so perfectly. There is another blinking black camera eye in the corner of this room and Light seems to be unaware of it as his eyes stay trained on B.

B licks his lips as he crouches on Light's bed—Light's and L's bed, likely—much as he did minutes ago on Matt's.

Light looks torn between asking B what he's doing there and screaming for help, so B decides to take the decision out of his hands, and he crawls close again, ignoring Light's flinch.

He doesn't touch him, not yet, but he lets his eyes travel down and across his form—Light is trembling, though it is not very pronounced except in his hands. B picks one up and turns it over, and Light doesn't pull away, but his eyes are narrowed in suspicion.

Well, that's fine, B thinks as he studies the heavily scarred skin that trembles in his grasp. Lightly, he nips at one of the fingers, and then Light does jerk his hand away. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demands.

"Don't worry," B whispers, his voice catching as he suppresses his laughter. "I won't hurt you." Then he can't help it and starts laughing.

Light blinks and stares at him blankly. "I'm not worried, B," he tells him. "You don't scare me."

"Then what does scare you?"

"What in God's name are you doing here, B?"

B laughs again, loving the way it makes Light flinch, and then he gets very close. "I came here for you, of course," he says, and presses his lips to Light's again. L will watch this video once he gets home, if he isn't watching now. This is just too wonderful.

Light shoves him away and stands. His hands are in his pockets, which B assumes is to hide the trembling. "Where's Matt?" he asks.

"Your babysitter?" B guesses, and then laughs as Light's eyes narrow at that. "He's alive, if that's what you're worried about. I always did like Matt better than the others."

Once he hears that, Light turns 180 degrees and heads for the door. B is still laughing, because he knows Light isn't going to go very far. "Where are you going?" he asks.

"I'm not having this conversation. I'm going to find Matt and then we are going to call L so he can throw you in prison or whatever the hell he wants to do with you," Light says flatly.

"That reminds me," B comments, glancing around the room as though he'd just noticed. "Where _is_ L?"

Light freezes in the doorway as B's tone dips just enough to suggest he knows more than what he's telling. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks flatly. "What do you know?"

"He left you here, did he?" B asks, and Light's trembling grows more pronounced as he turns slowly to face him. "Why would he do that?"

"He has a case," Light says, not looking at him.

"What case?" B asks, cocking his head to one side, not getting off the bed. Light is going to come to him.

Light is silent as he raises dark eyes to stare at B. His head dips down and B is delighted to see a flash of white teeth working at his lower lip.

"What case, Light?" he asks again, leaning forward, speaking intently. His eyes never leave Light's. "Why did he leave you here? Why didn't he tell you about it?"

"I think we both know exactly what case L is working on," Light snaps bitterly, and B chuckles softly. The way he says L's name, with such venom, means that B has his work cut out for him. "Crowley," Light grinds out, when B doesn't answer.

B nods. He smiles; he knows.

"What do you _want_?" Light demands, his voice a rush of quiet desperation. He rocks back and forth slightly, teetering between waiting for B's answer and running out the door.

B pauses, considering, and then lowers his voice another notch to answer. He also endeavors to hide his grin, which does not go well. "I want to know, if the case is so important to you, why he left you here. Were you afraid?"

Light snaps and turns away. "Shut _up_." His voice cracks across the silence of the room.

B ignores that, like he always has. "Do you know where L is?" he asks. There's no room left for subtle manipulation now; Light is nearly out the door. "Where Crowley is?" he adds as Light keeps walking.

Light shivers when B says the doctor's name but he also stops dead in his tracks. "Do you?" he whispers, without turning around, hand still on the doorknob.

"Yes," B says, his voice soft too. Light's knuckles turn white as he grips the handle harder.

He turns around after another moment. "Is that what you came here for?" he says, his expression set and stubborn. "To persuade me to do something by telling me where Crowley is?" B is silent, waiting for the rest of Light's answer. "That information is worthless to me," Light says. "I've already hacked L's computers. I just need to decode the information now and it won't take long."

B laughs softly. "L doesn't know where Crowley is either," he says. "He knows where the patterns are, but he doesn't know the exact city, the exact street address, the apartment number."

Light's eyes widen, and he takes several faltering steps towards B. His hands clench and unclench at his hands as they tremble. "What do you want?" he breathes.

"Nothing," B tells him cheerfully. "Nothing you can give, anyway."

Light's hands clench in frustration, and his body sways slightly as he stops himself from attacking B out of sheer frustration. "Then why the hell are you here, if you won't take me to him?"

"Oh, I will," B says, sounding surprised. "Did I say I wouldn't?"

"B, I don't have the patience for your games anymore," Light snaps, taking another step towards him, then seemingly changing his mind and taking a step back. "Just tell me what this is all about."

"I will," B says. "Come here."

"No."

"Fine," B says comfortably, not looking concerned in the least. "I won't tell you where Crowley is, but I'll take you to him."

"You want me to leave with you," Light realizes.

B nods, and Light's expression shuts down. "No," he says flatly, and B shrugs again, still nonchalant. He has more than just revenge up his sleeve. "I can find him myself."

B shrugs. "Probably," he says. Then he pauses and smiles, because he is far from done. "How have you been, Light?" he asks.

Light doesn't even deign to answer that, and it only makes B laugh again. It looks as though Light has lost that wonderful sense of humor he gained in the asylum. What a shame. "And how is L?" he asks.

"The same as always," Light says stiffly, folding his arms across his chest.

"Have you gotten what you want from him yet?" B asks, and then shivers with glee as he watches the rage and helpless frustration flash across Light's face. He doesn't answer, which B takes as permission to continue. "No sex, then?" B says, and he can _hear_ Light grit his teeth. "Saving yourself for me, were you?"

"B," Light says, and his voice is every bit as soft and unstable as B's as he fights for control.

"Does L know?" B asks, honestly curious. He wonders how much Light has told him. He's been wondering for some time what, exactly L knows about Light. In some ways it's funny—that the person L is in love with is not at all the person he perceives. The poor creature will be terribly disillusioned when he watches this video.

"Know what?" Light demands.

B giggles, softly. "That I fucked you," he says, turning his head so the camera catches his profile and delighting in the sheer vulgarity of the sentence. And before Light can answer, he continues, "And that you wanted it. That I was L's _substitute_."

Light appears to be speechless, torn between rage and—yes, there's the fear, which had previously been lurking behind his eyes. It's out now, and he looks absolutely terrified.

B considers the fact that having sex with Light right now would be a lovely parting gift for L's cameras. He glances at the clock. They only have twenty minutes left, if B's being conservative about his time. Probably not, then.

Light, meanwhile, makes a strangled noise and forces himself to turn away from B and heads for the door again.

"I wasn't finished, Kira," B says, and Light spins back around.

"I am," he hisses, and B can see in his expression that he's unraveling.

"I have something for you," B continues. "If you'll come with me, I'll give you a present."

"Shut the fuck up, B," Light says, turning back to the door and wrenching it open again.

"Kira," B says, singing the word softly, almost lovingly. "What did L do with your Death Note?"

Light is on the threshold of he door, and B can almost hear him thinking, analyzing the options and probabilities of this scenario. "He burned it," Light says in a low, hollow voice.

"So memories of that time are gone," B concludes, speaking softly, measuring his words carefully. He needs to push Light, but he also needs to keep him here.

"Yes," Light says, his back to B.

B very much wants to go over to Light to see his expression, but he holds his ground. He needs to make Light come to him (because L will be watching this exchange, and B knows that it is going to destroy him when Light comes willingly). B licks his lips, and then whispers, "Would you like them back?"

B's words drop like heavy stones on the carpet between them and Light stiffens and then slowly turns around. "What?" he asks tonelessly.

B slowly reaches under his shirt and pulls out a thin black notebook. "I said, would you like your memories back, Kira?"

For the briefest moments, Light only stands and stares at him, and then he walks over to the bed and sits down in front of B. "What do you want?" he asks, his voice still colorless.

"Are you sure you want this?" B asks, his voice barely taunting. "L probably had a reason to burn yours."

Light reaches for the Note, but B holds it out of his reach. "What do you want?" Light repeats.

Carefully, B places the Note on the bedside table and gestures for Light to come closer which, after a brief moment of hesitation, he does.

B's rough, possessive fingers tighten around his jaw, and Light's eyes widen in fear, but he does not pull away. "Come here," B whispers, barely able to contain his laughter, and Light closes the gap between them and lets B dominate this kiss, shuddering as he tastes blood again.

B's hands are forceful as he turns Light's head slightly and then nips at his lower lip. He doesn't waste any time—there are only sixteen minutes left before Wammy and God knows who else shows up and they need to be far away by then—he slides his tongue past Light's lips and kisses him hard, open-mouthed.

To ground himself more than anything—because he feels like it's not him, like he's not even in his body anymore—Light grabs a handful of B's white t-shirt (and God, it's _so much like L's, all of this is so much like L that it _aches, _but oh God, it feels so good, too, he's forgotten what this felt like . . ._). His other hand touches the side of B's face, feeling the tiny ridges of his scars, and although B knows that it is so Light can make sure that it is B, so his bruised, diseased mind can kinesthetically tell the difference, when L reviews the videos, it will look like tenderness.

B pushes Light down onto the bed and lets one of his hands trail down his throat as his fingers close gently over Light's pulse. This is why Light is beautiful to B—not because of how he looks or acts or even how he tastes. But because Light will let B do this to him, because he enjoys it to some extent, and most of all, because B can do this and _L cannot_.

Light is getting lost—B can tell by how his breathing picks up and becomes irregular, and how his hands hold tighter. Light is afraid, and he wants this (well, what he really wants is L, but B is more accessible, more at his level), and he's afraid of how he wants this, and B can't help it—he laughs softly into the kiss.

B pulls away and looks with no little satisfaction at the glazed expression on Light's face. He lets Light sit up, but when Light reaches over for the Death Note, B grabs his wrist. Light looks at him, eyes asking the question that he doesn't voice.

"No," B says softly. "That one's mine." He pauses and smiles again. "I know where you can find one, though."

Light is motionless, silent, for a long moment. Then—"I'll go wherever you want," he manages, the words spoken low and deep and B knows Light is not unaffected by their kiss.

B laughs softly, and even the corners of Light's lips twitch upwards into a humorless smile. "Are you sure?" B asks. "What about L?"

Light glances down at the bed—at L's side, B presumes—and he is silent again for a few moments. B gives him as long as he needs to come to terms with his decision—because they both know that Light's decision has already been made. Was made even before B kissed him. Has probably been made for a long time, before B ever even got here. And _that_ is what B has been counting on. When Light finally does look up, his mouth is a grim slash across his face and his eyes are cold and distant. "L lied," he says, callously, and then stands and heads towards the door.

He pauses. "Are you coming?" Light asks, lips twitching up into a desperate grin.

B laughs and with one final glance directly at the camera glinting in the corner of Light's bedroom, he stands and follows Light out of the room.

* * *

A/N: Auugggghhhhhh school. I am sorry, desperately sorry, that I didn't reply to reviews. I really do value each of them and I love the more personal ones, with the commentary and especially when you delightful reviewers ramble. It makes me feel like I have friends. But I had to drop something so I wouldn't positively DIE of stress, and that was one of the things. Who knew college was so HARD? Who decided this?

Blah. Midterms. Feh.

In other news, I've had a lot of people tell me how horrible I am for leaving them at such a terrible cliffhanger. Well, here's the resolution. Sort of. And for those of you who were hoping to see a L-gets-home-and-sees-B-and-they-have-a-huge-fight scene, sorry about that too! DOn't worry--it'll come. Later. Probably. I'm not promising you anything.

Also, I am bored of my typical stuff. Not so much this story, which isn't boring so much as depressing. I need a new challenge, which means I'm holding a kind of . . . challenge? I don't know what to call it. Whatever. The point is, I'm looking for a new story, preferably a oneshot, to challenge me and make me work as a writer. If you have anything you'd like to see, email it to me, and I'll take it into consideration. I won't necessarily do just one, or do any at all, but if anything catches my eye, then I'll write it up and dedicate it to you as my new best friend.

Long author's note, sorry! I'll get back to work now!

Thanks for reading--I won't threaten any small mammals this time, folks, so I'm trusting you to review all on your own! XD


	6. Pain

**Part 06 – Pain**

**Edited and Reposted as of 12.07.09**

**

* * *

**

Light is shivering, trembling, and B laughs as he glances over at him.

"Are you frightened, Light?" he asks.

Light curls into himself further but glares sideways at B through narrowed eyes. "Shut up, B," he snaps.

B is actually silent for a moment, and then his smile picks back up and he asks, "Is this how you treat L?"

Light folds his arms across his chest in a gesture both meant to stifle the shudders coursing through his body and to create a more defensive position between himself and B. "No," he says shortly. "But you aren't L."

If he could keep telling himself that, maybe then it would be true and their faces wouldn't get twisted and confused as he struggled to separate the two.

"Aren't I?" B asks in a monotone, and when Light glances over at him he shudders and jerks so he's staring out the window again. B had adopted an emotionless façade and his eyes are flat and black as he watches the road in front of them. As Light watches in the reflection of the glass, he nips idly at his thumbnail.

"No," Light manages to say. "But pretend all you like."

"No," B corrects, his grin starting to overtake his somber expression. "I'll pretend all _you_ like. This is what you were after in the asylum, wasn't it? A replacement for your dear detective?"

Light only stares at him for a moment then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He doesn't answer B because . . . because saying he's wrong is asking for trouble and saying he's right is asking for insanity.

God, he feels . . . he feels sick, physically ill instead of the other kind of sick he usually is. He cannot handle this right now. His stomach is churning and he remembers that he hasn't eaten since breakfast of yesterday morning—a good thing, too, since if there had been anything in his stomach he doesn't imagine that it would stay down.

His head hurts too; it's pounding and his vision keeps getting blurry and he keeps blinking to correct it.

And his shaking—the God-awful trembling that seems to have spread from just the tips of his fingers to the rest of his limbs—makes him feel like he's going to tremble until his joints just can't take it anymore and he'll just fall apart, piece by piece.

Light grimaces at the rather grisly image that produces and tries to force his mind away from it to more pleasant matters. Unfortunately, those are few and far between.

_Crowley_. It isn't really a pleasant thought, but it drives him. _Crowley and my memories_. If there are two things Light really does hate L for, those are it. His trembling grows more pronounced as he considers Crowley—and well, damn it, how is he supposed to feel about him?

There are pieces of him missing and Light knows that he can't be completely insane because there are these gaping holes and _he can feel them_. He can feel where his collected, social behavior used to be, where rational decision-making was, where _Kira_ used to be.

He wants it back. He wants his life back before all of this began—before he even picked up the Death Note—so badly that it burns.

He hadn't wanted to go with B. Not really. He doesn't like B. But at this point, he likes L even less.

Goddammit, if L hadn't insisted on _lying _to him and taking away his memories and (_and saving his life—twice_) treating him like he was so fucking fragile (_and even though he is so fucking fragile, for wanting him there anyways, for caring anyways_) . . .

They have been driving for what feels like maybe ten hours. Light knows that it is less, but he feels restless and upset and he feels very much like he's going to break down—but if he does, what the hell is B going to do? If Light has one of his episodes, is B going to pull over and wait until he's calmed down or help him to push through the pain?

More likely, B would pull over so he could watch and laugh.

_Good_, Light thinks darkly. It has always stung that L pays such careful attention to him. What has Light done to deserve it?

His mind jumps around and he can see instances of L's kindness—unsolicited, mostly unnoticed, unwanted, certainly. L being patient with him as he has to relearn something as basic as walking because of his mangled ankles; L watching him when he thinks Light is zoned out or even asleep, and there is such softness and humanity in his expression that Light can feel his guilt pressing harder on his chest.

What has he done to deserve it? He deserves death, certainly, and L was right to promise it to him. But L had broken his promise . . .

Yes, he had, and with that thought a red anger steals through him, curving around his spine and making breaths come hard and fast. Yes, L had broken his promise, twice he had broken promises and he had _lied_.

That is the worst, and L should have _known _that. L should have known that Light was not so fragile so as to warrant his exclusion from this case. L should have recognized his sensitivity to his lies and God, it just stings, and Light feels himself being consumed with this pain—

Doesn't ever _end_? He just wants to scream it. When is this overwhelming ache of grief and guilt and awful responsibility going to end?

He can't always be beholden to L for this. Somehow he has to make it even again—they aren't even, they're too far apart, L is _so much higher _that Light can't even see where he stands, and _it is killing him_.

He takes one deep breath, trying to see past the red fogging his vision and tinting his view of the English countryside. He takes another, and tries to push his way through this hollow blackness that grips him. A third, and Light realizes that his life now is made up of colors—red for his rage; black for the guilt and grief; white for when the pain hits too hard, too suddenly, and his mind is so lost he doesn't even know he's himself.

As he manages his breathing, Light tells himself that this is what B is for. B lies to him, yes—but he never said he wouldn't, he always admits to deceitfulness. B hurts him, yes, but it is hardly less than what Light expects or deserves. And B is a horrible, manipulative bastard, yes, but . . . well, actually, that part's pretty much the same as L.

But that is why he is with B. He _cannot _stay with L; he was considering leaving while L was gone anyway. And because of his own, wonderfully transparent self-interest, B is much obliged in taking Light to retrieve his memories and to murder the man who took his sanity in his hands and then splintered it and let it fall like so much sharp glass. And also because Light knows what payment B expects from him (unlike L, who has never stated the terms of their arrangement and who just _gives_ like he doesn't expect anything back): B has already taken most of his payment, Light knows. It is that L will know that Light has left with B. Any way B can beat L, any way he can take something important to him—

But now shame creeps over Light like some stealthy predator with too-sharp claws raking into his abdomen and chest; his heart beats faster and his cheeks flush with the unsolicited emotion of regret.

How much of this emotional battering is his body supposed to take, Light wonders bewilderedly. In some part of his mind he knows that he is still in the car, still sitting next to B in his unobtrusive black sedan that is probably stolen. But everything else, everywhere that counts, he is a long way away from. His trembling frame slumps back, breathing lightly, irregularly.

This is not an episode; Light doesn't know what or where or who he is in those, and he is terrified. Now he has a horribly clear image of what he is and it is not pretty.

He has fallen very far, for someone who once thought himself the equivalent of a god. Now he is so much less, so much farther from human that even his deluded state of deification previous cannot make up for what he lacks.

He needs to find a happy medium—a place to rest, to put up stakes and claim and not be _ashamed _of claiming. He isn't a god, and he _knows_ that, but he remembers that feeling of power that stole his breath and made him feel as though his mind was no longer tethered to his weak, breakable, mortal body.

Crowley broke that, shattered that illusion. When he'd first arrived in the asylum, Light had not been worried about what the doctor would do to him. His body and mind were no longer tied together; Crowley could twist what he wanted, break and cut and tear what he wanted, but Light had his mind.

He had been so wrong. He had so greatly underestimated the power of pain—so greatly, that it pains him even now when he thinks of his naivety.

And Light is just tired now; he can feel the emotions that have been making him tremble and spin in wild circles of not-logic drain away until he can only think of how nice it would be to be human again, how nice it would be to look at L again and like when they had been chained together, see an equal.

* * *

L is so still that Matt wonders if he is even breathing—no, he hadn't been, but now he takes a deep, shuddering breath and presses pause on the video feed he has been watching.

Matt shifts uncomfortably on the couch he's been designated to occupy. He rubs absently at his throat, which still burns softly when he swallows. B certainly did a number on him; he hadn't been expected that level of violence. He'd been stupid, and a couple of bruises and a dozen stitches on the back of his head are a small price to pay. He's lucky he isn't dead.

L, meanwhile, has sorted through the files on the computer and pulls up several freeze-framed images and short clips. Matt figures that he's trying to read lips; although L has cameras placed all over the house, they are too small to have any speakers so he is relying on his lip-reading abilities to tell them any crucial information. Matt wants very much to help, since he'd rather like to find B and tell him what he thinks of his abysmal behavior, but Wammy says that a concussion means rest. And rest means staying between a 0 and 45 degree angle to the couch, apparently.

L turns to him, opening his mouth to speak as he does so, and then—

_You're hot then you're cold, you're yes then you're no, you're up then you're do—_

The inappropriately chipper jingle of Matt's cell phone shatters the silence they have been keeping.

He flips it open. "Hey," he says by way of greeting.

"Matt."

It is Mello, and the edge to his almost-toneless voice suggests that he is royally pissed.

"Hey Mello, what's up?" he asks cheerfully.

"I haven't heard from you in two days; but do you know who I have heard from?" Mello asks, tone deceptively calm.

"Who?" Matt asks. He knows that Mello hates it when he plays dumb, but . . . it's kinda fun and he can always chalk it up to his concussion, right?

"Wammy," Mello says flatly. "He called to ask me if you've got any allergy to medicine, and if you had a history of drug use that, combined with blunt force trauma, could result in a coma."

"Why are you angry? I haven't used anything in years," Matt protests. "Not since . . . not for a really long time, Mello." He pauses to catch his breath, and realizes that this is not the way to deal with an angry Mello. Holy shit, his injury must be a lot more serious than he'd thought.

"That's what I told him," Mello says. There is a brief pause while Matt fumbles with what would be the right thing to say. Apparently he waits too long because Mello's voice begins to rise as he continues, "How about you stop messing around and tell me what the fuck is going on, Matt? I have _very_ little patience left for this conversation, so make it quick."

"We've been talking for like 45 seconds, Mello," Matt drawls, horrified at his words even as they come spilling out of his mouth. "How the hell do you run out of patience in 45 seconds? I've got _years_ worth of patience left, and I _live _with you." Crap crap crap, why can't he stop?

Just as Mello starts to respond with a good deal of profanity and threats involving castration, L leans over and plucks the cell phone out of Matt's fingers.

"Mello?" he asks tonelessly, his monochrome tone cutting cleanly through the red of Mello's tirade.

Mello takes a deep breath that Matt can hear from where he still slouches. "L?" he finally asks, voice strained with the effort it is taking him to stay calm. "What's going on?"

"Matt has managed to retain a moderately severe head injury, and he is not thinking clearly—" _Am so! _Matt mutters sullenly— "so you mustn't blame him for his less than tactful comments."

Another deep breath. "What happened?" And then, quietly, "Is he all right?"

"Yes, he is all right," L answers. "He sustained mostly superficial injuries, although he did require stitches at the base of his skull. I am certain you remember B from Wammy's?"

Mello didn't even bother to answer that question—at least, not directly. "I am going to _kill_ that son of a bitch!" he exclaims, not even bothering to lower his voice. "Give the phone to Matt."

Obediently, mechanically, L hands the phone back and returns to his videos. Matt accepts it and fumbles for a moment before managing to settle the phone in the general vicinity of his ear. "Mello?" he says uncertainly. "I'm here."

"Are you all right?" Mello hisses, sounding more angry than concerned. Matt knows better than to trust Mello's tone though.

"I'll be fine," Matt promises. "I mean, I am fine, but I'm just kind of dizzy?" He hadn't meant for that to come out as a question. Fuck it all.

"Where are you?"

"L's summer place," Matt says. "It's like an hour away from Wammy's."

"Along that dirt road?"

"Yep."

"Okay, I'm coming."

Matt tries to sit up and then winces and falls back down to the couch. "What?" he asks breathlessly. "Why?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Mello demands. "Don't ask stupid questions, Matt."

And the line goes dead. Matt stares at his cell phone bemusedly for a moment before tossing it onto one of the cushioned chairs. "Mello's coming," he announces to the silent room.

L barely glances at him. "Fine," he says distractedly. Then he pauses the feed and turns fully to face Matt. "Are you all right?" he asks. "Do you require more pain relievers?"

"Nope, the aspirin hasn't worn off yet," Matt says. "Sorry I'm not more helpful."

"There is no need to apologize," L says automatically. "I am the one who asked you to stay here which resulted in your acquisition of several fairly severe injuries. I am sorry."

"S'all right," Matt tells him, slumping back down on the couch, eyes slipping closed. "I'm just gonna sleep, 'kay?"

"Fine," L says, and turns back to his computer. "Wammy says that you are safe to sleep, but to be sure, I will wake you in an hour to be certain your concussion is not causing complications."

"Okay, thanks," Matt says vaguely, half asleep already.

The blind trust in Matt's voice and the casual faith his actions so clearly exhibit draw another heady flow of guilt and L bites down on his thumb, hard, and turns back to his computer. He cannot afford emotions now.

L listens absently to Matt's soft, even breathing as he scans the snippets of video feed on the screen before him. This is . . . frustrating, to say the least. L can see what is going on, he watches the sequence of the events, but can hear nothing. And because it had been so dark, much of the dialogue is lost. His ability to read lips is useless when faces are turned away from the cameras or it's too dark to see.

He has worked through some of it, though—he read the offer B made to Light, some bits and pieces of their conversation, Light's anger, B's goading and laughter, and the entirely unsettling (_terrifying, more like, but L can't afford to be terrified right now_) crude comment in which B alluded to a physical relationship.

And even though that is enough to make L just want to turn off the computers, turn off his brain, and just curl up and not-exist, it isn't the worst of it.

Worse than that is watching B and Light argue briefly over bringing Light's medication with them, and then leaving it behind; worse than that is the fact that it is _Light _who leads them out of the house, walking willingly; worse is when B looks directly at one of the cameras and just _smiles_, just smirks into the lens because he _knows _it is there, and he knows L will be watching; and the worst is when Light is ready to leave and B asks about L, Light says _L lied_ and then leaves.

L tears his gaze away from the computer and lets his head fall into his hands. He presses the palms of his hands into his eyes and suppresses the urge to just _scream_. Screaming is not going to help. Emotions are not going to help. But it is getting hard—impossibly hard—not to feel. He cannot pretend nonchalance. He cannot distance himself from this crime because not only is the victim someone who means more to him than anyone else, but also because it was done directly to hurt _him_. B didn't want—doesn't want—Light. He wants L to hurt.

And God, he does.

He makes a quiet, miserable noise in the back of his throat and lets his head fall still further until it rests on his knees. He can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision and threatening to fall—but he pushes it back, pushes the emotions and the thoughts down and just tries to breathe.

And yet . . .

_L lied. _

It is too hard.

_Light leaving with B, not being dragged but leading him down the silent corridors . . ._

Light is _gone_. He'd chosen to leave. Not so much because of B, but because of _L_, because of what L had done and hadn't done.

L bites his thumb so hard it breaks the skin but he doesn't notice until the coppery taste of his own blood seeps into his mouth and then he recoils, disgusted.

And as a caveat to Light's absence, Matt has suffered injuries that are more serious than Wammy or L led him to believe. The bruises around his throat and elsewhere on his body from the brief scuffle he and B had had were not so terrible, but the gash on his head had still been sluggishly bleeding when Wammy arrived half an hour after he'd received L's call.

The cut itself, which had been nearly 5 inches across and one deep, was in a terrible spot—right at the base of his skull, so close to the spinal cord (and, consequently, paralysis) that it still haunts L. Though it hadn't severed any nerves, the injury had caused him to lose a considerable amount of blood, and Wammy had taken him to a hospital. They'd stitched him up and given him blood and eventually stabilized his condition, but for an hour or so it had been horrifying.

He is all right now—more or less. The strange behavior will go away with time, as his mind places everything back in the correct spot.

So to sum up, L has incited Mello's wrath to a potentially fatal degree, he's exhausted Wammy who had to run back and forth between the orphanage, the house, the airport, and the hospital for hours on end, he's lost Crowley's trail again, and he has driven Light into the arms of a fellow mass murderer.

This is shaping up to be an absolutely fucking fantastic week.

L doesn't realize that he's actually crying until Wammy walks in and he can't see him very well for the tears. Ashamed of this weakness on top of everything else he's done, L lowers his head back onto his knees.

"L." Wammy's voice is gentle, but L doesn't want kindness. He doesn't _deserve_ for Wammy or anyone else to be understanding. He wants someone to be angry, to tell him that it is his fault because it _is all his fault_.

Wammy has walked into the room now and he pulls up a chair and lowers himself into it so he and L and sitting face-to-face. Or, at least, they would be if L raised his head.

"Lawliet," Wammy says, and L makes an effort to stop this ridiculous display and reassert his emotionless façade.

Wammy takes his hands, which have been wiping at his eyes, and holds them. "L, this is not weakness," he says. "Weakness is an inability to connect."

"It is more of a habit, actually," L tells him. He still wants to hide his face away from Wammy's empathetic and kind eyes, and he averts his gaze. It's the least he can do.

"I will not patronize you with reassurances," Wammy says, speaking even though L won't look at him. "But surely you know that not all is lost."

"I do not fear for his death, Wammy," L says, whispering so his voice will not break. No parts of him are allowed to break—he is L and by definition is steel.

"You are concerned because of the nature of his departure. Because he was willing to leave," Wammy says.

L doesn't even trust his voice to speak now. He just nods.

"And you are concerned because of Matt and his injuries, and over myself and probably Crowley," Wammy finishes, and then L does look at him because damn he's _good_.

"Yes," he agrees.

Wammy releases his hands and gestures to Matt. "Matt is fine—he has been promised a full recovery, and if he has not been scarred by his past yet, this certainly will not have a profound effect on his psyche. And Mello, similarly, will be fine. He is on his way here, and when the two of them are together, they seem to be whole." Wammy pauses to let L process that and just breathe for a moment before he continues. "And I am also fine. You needn't worry over me—I know when my breaking point is. If I am in danger, I will know and withdraw."

"I don't like this," L mutters, finding words inadequate to explain the guilt that seems to be eating him alive.

"You will find him."

"What if he doesn't want to be found?" L demands. "What if he would rather . . ." He stops because he cannot finish the sentence, but then swallows and continues. "I do not want him here against his will. If this is the result of his unhappy presence here, then perhaps it is best he stay with B." L spits B's name like a curse, then bites down on his thumb hard.

"I am confident that Light does not want to be with B," Wammy says. "I have seen the video feed too, L. He attempted to leave several times, even after B offered to help him avenge himself and find Crowley. It was not until B made an offer too tempting to refuse that he left. He is gone because of the promise of revenge and memories, not because of B."

"It doesn't matter why he's gone," L says, and he knows that he's being horribly selfish but the words come out anyway. "It matters to me that he's gone at all. It matters to me that he…," L pauses to swallow back the tightness in his throat and blink rapidly. "He was unhappy here. I knew it before, but I had been hoping that things would remain as they were. They were just getting worse, though. I didn't know how to fix it—I don't know how to fix it, or this, or anything," he wails softly, and then immediately cuts himself off and begins internally berating himself for _wailing_ of all things. What right does he have to be upset? Light is hurt, Light is confused, but L needs to be the one with everything together.

Inexplicably Wammy's response is to ask, "You told Light that he was human, did you not?"

Cautiously, L nods. "He needed to hear it," he says.

"So do you," Wammy says, and though his voice is still understanding now there is a firm, immoveable edge to it that hadn't existed before. "You are incredibly human, L. Maybe your symbol isn't, but you must separate L from L Lawliet, who lives and breathes and bleeds."

"I don't have that luxury," L says, an almost irritated tone entering his voice. "Not before and certainly not now."

"What do you mean?" Wammy spoke calmly.

"Getting emotional is not going to find Light," L says, and he finds it easier to breathe as his unemotional mask reasserts itself. "And once he is found, being emotional with him is not going to make him any more stable."

"You tried this already," Wammy reminds him. "You tried being inhuman for him and it only made the both of you more rigid and unsure of one another. Perfection is too cold and aggressively distant to love. Just like you, Light wants something warm and real and flawed."

L goes very still, all of his muscles relaxing, and all the fight goes out of him as the implications of what Wammy is saying hit him hard. "I am the reason Light was worsening," he summarizes. "He found it impossible to match the standard I set up for myself. It was killing him to try."

"Maybe," Wammy says. "But Light has made a few mistakes in his own life, and he had set up his own unrealistic expectations of deification for himself. If he tried to emulate your behavior it is only because it was comfortingly familiar."

L gives him an exhausted expression. "You are not very proficient at making me feel better, Wammy," he says simply. "I feel worse, though previously I did not think it possible."

Wammy smiles at him, gently. "That was not my intent," he says. "But I think that you would rather understand than be given a placebo."

L nods tiredly and blearily turns back to the computer screen. He does feel worse, as he told Wammy—it feels like there is an infinite blackness settled right in the pit of his stomach. But the awful pressure that had been slowly crushing him before has abated a little and he feels like he can breathe without too much pain.

With that realization, L also realizes that he has not slept in days and days and when Wammy suggests a nap, L obediently goes upstairs and curls up on his and Light's bed until unconsciousness claims him.

* * *

A/N: Here's the sixth chapter! Dedicated to **Nardaviel, **since she's been looking forward to this chapter (and L crying) since I started reposting XD

I don't have much time to write; as I'm sure everyone in the college world knows, finals are coming hideously soon. But. I hope this chapter is up to par--we're getting to the new chapters soon, and I'm excited to really get started on a story again! Please please please review if you have even a shred of humanity!


	7. Acceleration

**Part 07 – Acceleration**

**Edited and Reposted as of 12.24.09**

**

* * *

**

Light stares at himself in the cracked, yellowing reflection of the cheap motel mirror and lifts one trembling hand to wipe at the dark smudges underneath his eyes.

It doesn't help. He rubs harder and it is only when the skin starts to become red and irritated that he realizes that this isn't grime he is fighting against.

Dark circles. Dark, sleepless crescents of thousands of half-sleeping, half-screaming nights underscore his eyes and he lets his hand fall and just stares.

He is tired. He is trembling—his body has had it, and it is letting him know in the most creative ways. His hands are shaking, yes. He expected that. But the trembling has shifted so that each of his limbs shudder like he's some kind of junkie that needs his fix . . . and with a wry, utterly unamused smile Light realizes that that is exactly what he is.

He _hates_ his medication—he realizes it with such vengeance and bitterness that it nearly bowls him over and he finds himself gripping the edges of the counter to keep himself upright. He _hates _this, he _hates_ being weak, and consequently he _hates_ himself.

B is gone, and Light doesn't know or care to where, exactly. He pulled into this God-forsaken motel in southern China nearly an hour ago and then took off, God knows where. For supplies or money, maybe. Maybe he just wanted to kill someone. It doesn't really matter.

Light stayed in the main room until only very recently and then only until he couldn't stand the shiver-feeling of _things_ staring at him from the dark corners of the room. His eyelashes kept catching light and reflecting it back into his corneas, making spiders and centipedes and little creatures with night-eyes and long fingernails and silvery skin appear in the very periphery of his vision. And when he turned and looked they were gone . . .

So he'd taken sanctuary in the bathroom, where at least there was less room and less space for shadows. But now the sickly orange-yellow fluorescents are making his head hurt in a never-ceasing tango with reality and his stomach ache from ever-present anxiety and muscles tight and sore from never relaxing.

Instead of a sense of triumph that he'd expected to feel from escaping, from leaving the medication and the prison, and _L, _and going to find and hurt and kill Crowley, he feels a sense of grief that manipulates rather than heals.

And as he stares into the mirror, he realizes—he doesn't want to be hurt. He doesn't want to have a _reason _to kill anyone anymore. He just wants to reclaim the things that he gave away a long time ago, and they will not be recalled.

Things like hope and normalcy and _humanity_.

He hopes that it will come with removing the fear, the ache, the _cancer _that is Dr. Matthias Crowley. There is slender vengeance in his hands—which have so elegantly killed thousands, which will soon be killing the good Doctor, but not with a Death Note.

Oh no. Not personal enough. Light wants to hurt him first. He wants to see him scream and ache and beg. And then he wants to watch and listen and feel the life drain out of him like water down a drain.

The door opens and then slams, interrupting the gory scene in his mind's eye and Light blinks a few times, landing hard in reality. He takes a last look in the unframed mirror, just to make sure that he is the same, and then cautiously steps out of the bathroom.

B is standing next to the rickety table in the corner of their room and is in the middle of pawing through the three or four white plastic bags he's set there. Light struggles to read the cheerfully printed Mandarin—it has been years since he had to and his mind isn't what it once was.

Oh, a grocery store. How mundane.

B glances at him and then tosses him something, which Light catches by some miracle of instinct. He drops it almost as soon as he has it though, and the gleaming red apple bounces twice before rolling half under the bed.

B laughs then, a short, twisted spiral of humor, and bends to pick it up. "What's wrong, Kira?" he asks gleefully. "Not fond of apples?"

"Shut up, B," Light murmurs, sitting down on the bed. It seems that this is more or less the extent of his vocabulary on this trip.

B's expression is such a poor imitation of insulted that Light doesn't even bother to pretend to respond to it. B hands him a cup of soup instead and Light does drink that, not pausing to wonder why B has it or who he had to steal it from. Or why B would give it to him at all; it isn't as though Light has any inclination to eat. His medication and years in the asylum have long since killed the nerve receptors in his brain that try to tell him he's hungry.

The motel room is silent except for the louder-than-normal hum of a cheap air-conditioner for a few blessed moments, and then B grins and looks at him. "Almost there," he says. "And no trouble so far."

_Speak for yourself_, Light thinks, forcing his eyes to stay away from the dark corners of the room. He finishes the soup and feels no better for the sustenance. "Where are we going?" he asks.

"Japan," B says. "I thought that would be obvious."

"Where in Japan?"

"Kanto."

"I despise you. Where in Kanto? To what location and for what purpose?"

"To Misa Amane's residence."

Light starts slightly at the uncomfortably familiar name. "_Why?"_ he demands.

"Her Death Note."

Light is silent and just pushes the empty styrofoam cup away from himself until it topples over the side of the bed. "Oh," he finally says.

B grins and finishes his own meal which mostly consists of jam and some bread. He looks at Light calculatingly, and then he gets up and approaches him slowly.

"Light, you're shaking," he says, as though he'd only just noticed. "What's wrong?"

"Shut _up_," Light snaps, raising a hand to push him away. He hates the fucking condescension in B's tone—as if B were actually concerned about him.

B catches his hand and nips at the fingers. "Mmm," he murmurs, "no."

Light struggles to tug his hand away and B uses his unbalanced weight against him so they both go toppling down onto the dark comforter. Light immediately thinks of the asylum and he feels the horribly conflicting emotions of disgust and fear and worst of all, a shock of arousal to feel B's body pressed so close, so intimately to his.

B's eyes fill his vision, and for a moment, that pair of eyes is all Light can see. _They're so like L's, _is all Light can think and even though he _tries _to push that though away, when B's eyes turn up slightly as he gives Light an unstable grin, Light can't help but cringe. B must take this as permission or a desire to continue, or maybe (_probably_) he's just decided what he wants to do with Light now that he's got him, and he leans in and brushes his lips along Light's jawline and over the delicate veins that lay exposed on his neck.

Light is breathing hard with sharp intakes and harsh exhales; every time his thin chest expands as his lungs fill he can feel his rib cage press against B's. B is breathing hard too, but probably for an entirely different reason than Light.

While he sorts through these emotions, he can distantly feel B's teeth working at the skin on his throat—a sensation that becomes much less distant as his sharp canines rip the skin. He can feel B's tongue lapping at the blood that escapes.

"Stop, stop, stop it," he whispers. Light's hands—which he has just realized are not being held down by B in any way—push weakly at B's chest, trying to get him to move, to get some space between them. But B is having none of it and instead, B reaches down and tugs Light's hand up to his mouth so he can administer his careful attentions to that next. He nips at the fingertips playfully, then a little harder.

Light finds himself staring at the scene as though it isn't _his _hand that this is happening to; as though it isn't _him _getting aroused by B sucking and lapping at his fingers and palm; as though the gentle curve of B's lips around him doesn't remind him of those lips in other places (something that happened so long ago he _shouldn't _remember, it isn't _right _that the memory is still so fresh) or how the sharp pricks of teeth at his wrist, tugging on the tendons there don't make him wish that B would kiss him again.

He's cold, he's freezing—except everywhere B is he's starting to warm up and he's _disgusted _with himself for it.

"Why?" B asks, and when he kisses him Light tastes his own blood. He feels sick. "Why?" B repeats, pulling away. "Because you are frightened or because you want it?"

"Both." His voice is weak, almost inaudible.

B's response is amused, immediate. "No," he says.

B wraps thin, strong fingers around one of his collarbones even as his mouth makes a horrible mockery of affection along the other. "I bet I could break this right in half," he whispers, sounding delighted. "So delicate," he continues, laughing quietly, still murmuring, and Light can't stop shivering. He _hates _this and he _craves _this. It is almost affection, it is almost something he wants, and so close that it is still more than he deserves.

B's fingers are cold even through the thin material of his shirt, and so when he lifts it over his head Light winces as the cold digits play with the exposed skin. B's teeth start nipping lower, drawing blood in some places and in others sucking hard enough to exact moans of discomfort and unwilling arousal.

B keeps going lower and lower until Light thinks that he really will go crazy, and eventually all of Light's protestations stop, because just for a moment, a horrible tearing pain-ache-_scream_ moment, he doesn't think about what could be in the shadows and he doesn't think about shaking or trembling and he doesn't think about _L_, who he owes, who he left, who saved him and hurt him and—

It hurts now, he _hurts_ now—and Light screams and the tearing of those delicate tissues in his throat is so familiar that it is almost comforting. It _is_ comforting, and after awhile it is more than that; it feels _good_ and Light knows that it shouldn't, but the searing heat of the action is burning away any doubts he might have had about this. He's hot now, skin slippery and panting harder than before as his hands grasp blindly at B's shoulders—_still clothed, _he notes distantly.

More than just the sex, it feels _so good_ not to have to think all the time, always, never shutting down . . .

He doesn't finish when B does. After all motion has stopped for a moment, he is suddenly horribly afraid that he isn't going to at all; but then B begins stroking him, finishing him off too, leering down at him the entire time. B's drinking in every gasp, every pain-pleasure whimper, all the minutiae of expressions that Light cannot control anymore.

When he finally does finish, it's even better than when B first entered him because then there is not only _not _thinking about his pathetic weaknesses _(or about L), _there is no thinking at all.

It is white-hot, searing bliss that wipes out all his panic and worries for the most merciful of moments.

Light comes back to himself quickly. (He wishes he could stay away longer.) B is still watching him with a positively _evil _expression on his face, an evil, smug, self-satisfied expression that Light would endeavor to strike off if he wasn't so fucking exhausted.

He lets the exhaustion take control and feels himself slipping mercifully towards the edge of sleep.

"I could kill you," B says sweetly, when Light is between wakefulness and nightmares.

_Not if I get there first_, Light wants to say, but instead he opts to drift off into entirely uneasy unconsciousness, still holding onto the murderer on one side of him because it's still better than relying on the only other person in the room for comfort and sanity. Light thinks that if he had to rely on just himself for those things, he would have been dead a long time ago.

He can tell that B is amused by the way the fingers of one hand still grasp at the soft texture of his white shirt. But for whatever reason, B does not make him move and Light lets himself relax slowly into uneasy unconsciousness.

* * *

The next morning, Light wakes up and tries to move and then immediately feels like throwing up. B isn't in the bed with him anymore and so he rolls onto that side of the bed—still warm—and curls up tight. He forces down the nausea that came with the sharp ache that shot up his spine as he tried to sit up. He'd forgotten about this—it only happened once before after all.

He tries again and this time manages to sit up. He's bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood again (just a repeat of the injury he gave himself last night).

Holy shit, this _hurt_. And not just physically. In the grungy sunlight, Light could see the once-shadowy corners of the room; there was nothing to be afraid of there. The only thing to be afraid of in this room was him, and B when he got back.

"I _hate_ this," he whispers. By _this_, he means _me, _but he can't bring himself to say it out loud.

He manages to shuffle over to the bathroom and then throws all his energy into getting clean. He scrubs down with the tiny bar of soap the staff has provided, eventually using all of the little block. Next is the shampoo, which he rubs into his scalp so hard that his nails catch on the delicate skin and carve out thin red lines that don't bleed much be hurt like _hell_.

The whole time, his teeth are gritted and he refuses to admit that some of the moisture on his face might not be from just the shower.

When B gets back from wherever the hell he went, Light is composed and settled into an almost-comfortable position on the bed.

For a moment, B doesn't say anything. He just watches and Light refuses to meet his eyes.

Good. He should be afraid. He has no idea what kind of deal he's made, or what kind of creature he's made it with. He's starting to get it, yes, and soon he'll completely understand. But Light has only ever known B when the latter had been under the influence of powerful anti-psychotics and in a controlled environment. Light has no idea—_no idea—_what B is capable of.

But B will be very happy to show him.

Finally, B grins. "Ready?" he asks. "We've got a plane to catch."

Light is very quiet, but he does stand obediently and follow B out of the room.

* * *

L and Matt are both asleep when Mello arrives, and since Wammy is on the third floor working on L's tracking program, there is no one to answer his announcement of arrival.

Undeterred, Mello kicks off the combat boots by the front door more out of habit than anything else and then goes scouring the house for Matt.

He cares about L, sure. He thinks it's really too bad for him that Light's taken off with some psychopath twin of his, but Light and L and everybody else in the fucking world are nothing compared to Matt.

Mello frowns when he reaches the end of the hallway on the first floor. No one. Shit.

He turns and heads towards the stairs he'd seen near the front door. By the time he finds the staircase, someone—a certain redhead, who is tired-looking and a little disoriented, but otherwise absolutely, wonderfully _alive—_is already standing at the top of the steps.

Mello doesn't wait for him to move; he's up the stairs before Matt can blink. Another second and Matt is suddenly getting a _hug _of all things.

"Hey, Mello," he says uncertainly. He'd thought he'd heard shouting, which is what he'd been gingerly coming to inspect.

Mello doesn't let him go, and he's holding tightly enough that Matt is getting a little out of breath.

"I'm okay," Matt says.

Mello pulls away with a scowl. "I know," he says, reasserting his mask. Matt smiles and takes his hand, which Mello would usually protest, but which he knows Mello will allow now because Matt is an invalid.

"I gotta lay back down," Matt says. "My head's killing me."

Mello nods stiffly, so Matt leads him back into the living area. Mello sits on the couch and Matt lays down and puts his aching head in Mello's lap, closing his eyes to block out the lights that are making the blood beat in his temples.

Mello looks a little surprised, and then Matt feels cool fingers rest tentatively on his head, digging under his hair gently. He makes a little noise of contentment. It's always easier to be sick or hurt when Mello's there.

"Are you okay?" Mello asks, which is silly because Matt just told him that he was.

"Mm-hmm," Matt says. "M'head hurts, and my throat just because B's a bastard, but no lasting harm done."

"I'm still going to kill him."

"Okay."

"He is going to taste my fury."

"He likes jam better."

"Really, Matt. I'm going to rip out his entrails with my teeth and carve his skull like a Jack-o-Lantern."

"Wow."

"I'll bake a meat pie with his genitals and serve it to him with cream and peaches."

"Ew, Mel . . . Wait—before or after the entrails-ripping and skull-decorating?"

"Before, obviously."

" . . . Ew. You couldn't just donate his organs to science or something?"

"No. Why would science want crazy organs?"

"Mello, I seriously doubt that he has a deranged kidney."Matt peeks up at him and realizes that Mello looks completely serious.

"Oh, he does," Mello tells him darkly. "Besides, by the time I'm done with him, they won't even be recognizable as organic materials, much less individual human organs."

Matt looks faintly amused even as he drifts off to sleep. "I thought we'd . . . thought we'd agreed that killing was _bad_, Mel."

"Only unless they _really_ deserve it," Mello agrees.

"Touché," Matt mumbles, which is bad because they'd agreed a long time ago that using clichéd French phrases while bantering was unacceptable unless they were utterly indisposed. Matt must be worse off than he's playing.

Hey, is it safe for you to sleep?"

"Wammy said so."

" . . . Okay," Mello whispers.

Matt smiles comfortably and burrows his face into the rough denim of Mello's black jeans. At times like this, he can see the child Mello was so clearly. It's like the last ten years never happened. "I'm glad you're here," he murmurs.

Mello doesn't answer right away, and in a minute, Matt is asleep.

"Me too," he finally mutters, as his fingers play with strands of coppery hair.

* * *

L finds them an hour or so later, when he comes back down the stairs to continue his work. As he approaches the living area, he hears a very soft, dull sort of chanting, and he peers cautiously around the corner.

Matt is sleeping on the same couch he had been occupying previously, but Mello is with him now, one hand tangled in strands of unruly red hair and the other twining the beads of his rosary around his fingers as he murmurs prayers. The rosary is beautiful—L remembers that it is the same one that Mello arrived at Wammy's with. The beads are a rich dark wood, and the crucifix that dangles from the center is ornately carved for such a small symbol. Even L, who has never been religious, has to admire the intricately carved cross and Christ figure. Though it stands only about an inch or so high, someone obviously put a lot of effort into it. Mello's thumb rolls across the worn beads that shine already from a thousand prayers just like this one. He finishes and starts again.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us—forgive us our trespasses…"

He stops abruptly as he notices L walking into the room, and grips the rosary hard; he looks uncomfortable—caught being soft, kind, worried, but unwilling to relinquish his position with Matt. His pale eyes watch L's progress across the room to the computers.

Now that he's in the room, L actually has nothing to say. He's sorry about Matt. But he's also worried about Light to such a degree that the roaring of his own guilt and Light's pain and the ache that accompanies the knowledge that Light is with _B _is so loud that it drowns out anything else he might be feeling. "I'm glad you found him," L finally says, voice dull as he turns to his computers. Truly, he is glad, at least in theory.

"Hey!" Mello snaps, and L turns back around. His eyes widen incrementally as he takes in Mello's poisonous glare. He looks dangerous, even while still stroking Matt's hair gently. "At least fucking apologize," Mello hisses. "He almost _died_."

L blinks, remembering that Matt is much the same to Mello as Light is to him. That is to say, someone that defines him; without Matt, Mello wouldn't—couldn't—be what he is. "I . . . I am sorry, Mello," he says. "It was something that I did not anticipate. I called for help as quickly as I could."

"Where is he?" Now that he's got it Mello doesn't bother recognizing the apology.

"Who?" L knows who.

"_Beyond_." Mello's voice is so thin and angry it is almost nonexistent.

L sighs and sits down. "I do not know," he admits, resting his chin on his knee. "If I did, I certainly would not be here."

"So . . . what, he just took off with Light? Just . . . no ransom, no nothing? Just left?" Mello's voice is layered with disbelief and derision.

"Yes," L says, and his voice is dangerously close to a whisper. He swallows and forces himself to continue. "He didn't care about Matt, except as a diverting activity. He came to plague me, and to force my hand."

"Is it working?" Mello asks.

"Yes," L says, glancing away. "I believe that he and Light are off in search of another Death Note—I burned the one you used in the asylum. And they are also in pursuit of Dr. Crowley, who escaped both death and my searches for him."

Even Mello's stomach twists as he remembers the chilling doctor from the video feeds. "Got it," he says. "Revenge?"

"Yes."

"Well . . . fuck."

There is a pause, which is filled by Matt's soft breathing. "I think that 'fuck' sums it up nicely," L finally agrees, and before Mello can recover from hearing his mentor swear, he spins around in his chair and begins typing furiously.

It suddenly strikes Mello that L may not be as composed as he appears. Perhaps it is how L's lips (not visible now, but just a moment ago had been) are barely twisted down or how he hunches a little more than usual over his keys. Or the slight catch in his voice even as he makes what Mello realizes must be a titanic effort to sound normal.

"Hey," Mello says, and L half-turns to look at him. "Hey, are you okay?"

L turns his head fully and rests his chin on his knees for a moment. He sighs before speaking and his smile is sad as he says, "No, I am not."

"You'll find him, L," Mello hastens to reassure him.

But L is already shaking his head. "I'm not worried about finding him," he says, and to Mello's relief he sounds weary rather than like he's about to break. "I'm not worried B will kill him. It's just . . . you don't know, Mello . . ." he trails off for a moment. "I suppose I can have you watch what I have of the video feed, but it's sketchy . . ." L sighs again and looked away. "Light left voluntarily. B didn't even threaten him; he just offered him the Death Note and revenge, and Light . . . went."

Mello's fingers tighten for a moment in Matt's hair as he imagines _Matt _leaving him with someone else voluntarily and he resolves that that will never, _ever_, happen. But probably, L had decided that too. "Fuck, L, I'm really sorry," Mello says, surprising even himself with the empathy that rings clear in his voice.

L tries to give him a smile (it fails) and nods. "Thank you, Mello," he murmurs.

There is silence for another brief moment as Mello gathers his thoughts and L begins typing at the computer again.

"So, got any ideas?" Mello finally asks, leaning forward to see as much as he can of L's screen. "Or are we just hunting around in the dark here?"

L doesn't turn around, but Mello can hear the mild surprise in his voice. "'We'?" he quotes.

Mello laughs, although there isn't really any humor in it. "Do you really think I'd let B get away with this?" he gestures towards Matt for emphasis. "Fuck no. I'm in, and he's going to fucking _regret_ even thinking about hurting him." Mello's voice is understated and steely and is all more dangerous for _not_ sounding furious and out-of-control.

"Well then . . . thank you," L says. "I am certain that this investigation will go much quicker with you on board." His back is turned, so he doesn't see how Mello's face lights up a bit at the compliment.

"So is there anything?" Mello asks.

L nods slowly, looking at the screen where an email complete with a hazy photo and some explanatory text hover in cyberspace. "One of my contacts has seen a pair matching their description in the outskirts of Beijing. I believe they are headed to Japan."

"Do they think Crowley's there, or something?"

"I don't know about Crowley," L admits. "My lead went dead on that. But I do know that there is one other creature that almost certainly has a Death Note, and she is in Japan."

"So do we let them find it and then follow the trail of carnage to find them?" Mello asks.

"No," L says, picking up his phone and calling Wammy. "We get it first."

* * *

A/N: Y'know, I just realized that even if I have nothing to say, I always put in an A/N. Huh. Weird.

AT ANY RATE. It looks like I'm going to have to start threatening the small mammals again, you guys. I hope you know I am disappointed. Not in you. In me, for being this despicable person. But here goes: don't review, and I'm putting those six-pack soda plastic things around baby dolphins' necks. You heard me, yes. I'm going for the dolphins, and this time--it's environmentally _un_friendly. *cue evil laughter*

But HUGE thanks and kudos to people who have stuck with me this far. I really appreciate it and I know that updates have been sporadic and I'm sorry about that. Life, y'know.

Anyways, if you wanna, or if you wanna help save the planet/convince me to go green/keep me from harming baby dolphins, click the little review button!!


	8. Misa

**Part 08 – Misa**

**Edited and Reposted as of 1.09.10**

**

* * *

**The day Light Yagami was sentenced to life in prison, Misa Amane took the Death Note that Rem had taken from the task force and and put it in a safety deposit box.

And then she had gone home and _screamed_. Over and over and over until her throat was raw and her neighbors were alarmed and he ran out of voice entirely.

Because Light was gone, yes, but Light had also told her, just days before, she remembered . . .

"_Don't use it," _he'd said. "_I don't care what happens. You cannot use that Note, or you will be implicated. Keep to yourself, and keep Rem from . . . doing anything. Even if I die, Misa. You can't." _

And Misa had agreed, she had _promised_, because how could anything ever happen to Light, who was beautiful and brilliant? _Her_ Light, her _love_.

Now, everything is ruined.

Misa goes through the motions, remembering to eat, to sleep, to breathe, to work. She models, she acts; none of her fans know that she is an emotional wreck. Because if Light could act innocent and caring even when he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, then so can Misa. If Light could go bravely to his fate, then Misa can certainly go about her day-to-day business with dignity.

Besides, her other option is to admit that there is no more point to anything, and to just . . . die . . .

So, bravely (she thinks), every day she puts on her makeup and practices smiles in the mirror before calling her manager to pick her up. It isn't Matsuda anymore, thank God. He was a good man, but he was also a terrible manager. Too timid, too _nice_. This is show business, and sometimes Misa thinks that it takes even more guts than using the Death Note.

Misa knows that she isn't brilliant. She knows that she doesn't even lean towards the _bright_ side of the intelligence scale. She knows that it was never her mind that she had to offer Light. She is street-smart, she's people-smart, she's brave, she's got some small measure of common sense, but that's as far as it goes. When things matter very much to her, she can think ahead in small terms, in a few days or even a few weeks. But she was never like Light, who had years planned ahead of him, who was thousands of steps and possibilities ahead, who had gone over every scenario and had a specific plan for each one, down to the shade of dress shirt he should wear on which day of the week, no doubt.

Light was detail-oriented like that.

Things—life, work, optimism—had gotten harder when Rem had . . . well, died, for lack of a better word.

Misa hadn't been especially fond of her. She'd liked her better than that other one, Ryuk, and she'd thought that Rem was nice to have around in some ways, but it was difficult to love something as strange and twisted and ugly as Rem.

Still, Rem had made her feel safe. What's more, Rem had been a very real link between Misa and Kira, Misa and Light. When she'd died protecting Misa one night from an irate mugger, Misa had been quite sad and had canceled a whole group of meetings the next morning so she could drink hot chocolate and cry in peace.

The next day, she'd squared her shoulders and had gone back to work.

No, Misa is not smart. But she is strong, and she does have guts. That's how she's survived this far, and that's how she's going to keep going.

At least until, as she knows he will, Light breaks out and comes to find her.

Because he is her Light, and he is her love.

* * *

Misa gets home late most nights, because after photo shoots or filming there are most always parties or public appearances, and she must go to those or her image will suffer.

Tonight it's nearly one in the morning by the time she jingles her ring of keys and sifts through them carefully in the bright lights of her upscale apartment complex. Living alone used to scare her. Then she lost Light. Now, nothing does.

She pushes the door open with one foot as she balances her shopping bags with the other and maneuvers the door shut as she enters. The apartment is dimly lit by a light she usually leaves on in the kitchen. It's very dreary to come back to a completely dark home, so Misa makes sure that she never has to.

Misa showers like usual and while she dries off she's humming some pop song to herself and admiring her pretty pink face in the mirror. She really is very good-looking, she's decided. Better than any girl she's ever seen before, either in pictures or in person. Those stupid American pop stars don't even stand a chance next to the adorable Misa-Misa.

For a few minutes, Misa practices making terrified expressions in the mirror; she even goes so far as to let out a few experimental shrieks. She's being offered a part in Japan's next big horror movie, and she thinks that she can pull it off, even though it will be such a shame when her character has to get all bloody and dirty. And Misa thinks that she'll probably die, since she's the love interest, not the main character.

She smiles to herself when she's finished and nods in satisfaction. She'll be all ready for her first reading tomorrow; they'll love her. Everyone does.

She dresses in her nightclothes—skimpy, black, like everything else she owns but more silk than lace—and heads into her bedroom.

And she screams for real.

It's a loud, heavy shriek that rattles her own eardrums as she feels her face contort into a mask of terror. This is horrible, awful, so so frightening, and the man in the shadows is approaching slowly as Misa is turning to run and then—!

She freezes, and her bedroom echoes with the remnants of her scream.

She cannot move. She doesn't want to move.

And after a few seconds, she manages to breathe, "Oh, _Light_."

And then she is in his arms.

Light is . . . everything is the same, and yet nothing is. He is still beautiful, but it is achingly so now; Misa can see pain etched into his still-charming features. He smells clean still but now it is the clean of sterile hospital beds instead of subtle cologne and near-odorless soap. His smile is gentle but it strains at the corners; his arms welcome her in, but they are thin and hard; his hands caress her hair softly but they tremble.

She pulls back to look at him and he lets her go, watching with impassive eyes. His arms drop down to his sides and the spell is broken.

"Oh, Light!" she repeats. "Oh my God, how did you get here? When did you escape that awful place? Are you all right, do you need anything? God, Misa bets that you're starving, you look so thin! And Misa is so happy that Light has come back anyway, even if he is hurt! She knew he would, she knew they couldn't hold him, oh God, oh God she has missed him!"

Light, for once, just let's her talk, but Misa gradually realizes that it is less because Light is being considerate of her near-panic and more because Light seems powerless to stop her. His eyes seem rather lost as his hands clasp behind his back, and she finally notices that he is shaking a little, like he is cold. Her mouth slows and finally stops.

"Light?" she whispers, reaching up to caress his face. He doesn't move, only watches her with eyes that are never quite still. She doesn't understand; now that she is studying him closer, his eyes are so different. The honey used to be so warm, so content. She supposes that there were other times too, times when he was angry, that they would grow cold and haughty.

But now . . . they are nothing. There might as well be black holes where his eyes go for how much emotion and light gets through them.

"Misa," he finally responds. She is shocked at the timbre of his voice. He speaks in low, soft tones, but even so she can tell that his voice is gravelly and harsh.

"Oh, Light, what have they done to you?"

For the first time that night, Light's eyes register some surprise as he looks down at her. She wonders if he'd thought that she wouldn't notice such great changes in her lover.

"Misa," he repeats, apparently ignoring her question, "where is the Death Note?"

Her breath catches in her throat. "You mean . . . you mean you're going to keep going?" she finds herself asking. "Even with all that's happened? But Light, what about L? He's not dead; he'll know it's you, won't he?"

Light flinches when she mentions L, and she wonders what that bastard has done to him to make him so afraid. Light shouldn't be afraid of anything. If Misa could remember his name . . .

"He'll know," Light assures her. "I'm counting on it. Don't worry, Misa, I have a plan."

She bites her lip. "But . . . but you had a plan before," she whispers. "I know you are brilliant and wonderful, Light, but it didn't work last time . . ."

"I have had eight years to plan, Misa," Light tells her. "I have to at least try."

She understands; Misa has had eight years to plan herself. This is not how it's supposed to be, though.

Suddenly, Light finds himself wrapped in her arms again. "Light, Light, Light," she whispers, like a mantra, like a prayer. "Light, I missed you. I knew you would come back, but I missed you so much. I love you."

There is a long pause. "Misa," Light finally returns. "Misa, I . . . I missed you too. Please, though, there isn't much time. I don't know how close L might be. Where is your Death Note?"

At the mention of L's name, Misa springs back. "Of course!" she realizes. "L would know that you have escaped, yes?"

Light looks relieved that she understands, and Misa smiles, proud of herself. "Yes, that's right," he says. "I don't know for certain, but I can only surmise that he's been informed."

Misa darts over to her bureau, where she pulls out a white business card and hands it to Light. "That is the address of the bank I'm keeping it at in the States," she tells him proudly. "The number of the security box and the passcode are written below."

Light examines the card carefully before tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans with trembling fingers. Misa gasps as she notices the scars on his hands.

"Light!" she exclaims, grasping one of his hands, ignoring the way he flinches. She examines it carefully, with tears pooling in her expressive eyes. "Oh, Light, what did they do to you?"  
Light looks rather upset himself; he looks away and bites down on his lower lip, then gently tugs his hand away from hers and pets her hair. "Nothing I can't fix," he tells her firmly. He glances towards the door. "Now, Misa, I'm going to go get that Death Note. I have very much to do with very little time in which to do it."

She grabs his arm, noticing again as she does so how very thin and cold it has become. "But . . . you will come back?" she implores. "Light, you can't just leave me again, I miss you, please, I love you! You can't just leave!"

He must be able to tell that she's getting hysterical, because he bends down and kisses her, very briefly, on her trembling lips. He pulls back a little to look into her eyes. What she sees in his frightens her into silence, though she can't explain why.

"Misa, I . . . unless capture is imminent, I promise that I'll come back here," he tells her. "You must understand, though, if I don't keep moving, I'll be caught."

"I'll go with you!" Misa suddenly exclaims. "I will come and I'll be a great help, Light! You know I can help you!" She goes over to her bureau again and starts to pull out the necessities.

Light pauses her with a hand at her elbow. "Misa, you can't," he says. "Surely you understand . . . you're very famous. Your face is known all over the world. If you go missing suddenly, L will know, and he'll find me through you."

Misa waits, waits for Light to tell her that he'd love for her to come, that of course she could help him some other way, but he is silent, only staring at her with too-intense eyes and a set expression.

"Okay," she whispers. "Okay, Light, okay. Please, though . . . do you have a phone, anything I can call you on? I just want to stay close."

Light hesitates, then writes down a number on a sheet of notebook paper on her desk. "There's my number, for now," he says. "Don't call unless you need to talk to me. And wait a few days, okay? So L can't piece anything together."

And that's how Misa is left; standing in her bedroom, watching Light slip out the door with unnerving silence as she fights not to cry. At least he's escaped, she tells herself. At least Light is out, and once he takes care of that horrid detective, they can be together. It won't be like it once was; Light will not have much freedom. But together again, like they are supposed to be . . .

Despite the circumstances, it brings a smile to Misa's lips.

She returns to the bathroom to turn off the lights, and on the way back to the bedroom, she stops when she hears a noise in the living room. It must be Light, he must have forgotten something, must have something else to tell her, to ask her!

She bounds into the room, and for the second time that night she freezes and this time she does not unfreeze with joyous chatter.

"Ryuuzaki!" she squeaks. The dark-haired man is sitting on her living room sofa in that bizarre crouch of his, with a peculiar expression on his normally bland face.

He stares at her for a moment, and then he smiles.

It's creepy, that smile is.

She takes a step back.

"Amane-san," L says. His voice seems . . . deeper than normal. He stands.

She takes another step back. "What are you doing here?" she asks. She wishes that her voice sounded strong, not fearful and suspicious.

"I came to see you, of course," he says, and his voice is all wrong; it's all syrupy-fake-saccharine and ugly sarcasm.

"Why?" Misa starts edging towards the front door.

"Well, I just thought you should know," L says, his eyes following her every move, "that Light is _mine_."

The feral, almost deranged grin has her on edge and she suddenly bolts for the front door. He moves with unnerving speed and it isn't until he's cornered her in her bedroom that she notices the red eyes and sees the gleam of cold steel in his right hand.

And then he's upon her.

* * *

Light pauses outside Misa's apartment complex for a moment, catching his breath. He is exhausted, emotionally drained from the lying and the interaction with Mis and just physically tired from the travel and dealing with B and even just climbing the goddamn stairs.

He feels a shock of disgust go through him. He is _pathetic_. He can't even lie to Misa convincingly. She knew, _Misa_ of all people _knew_ that something was horribly wrong with him. And when Misa, who is obviously still obsessively in love with him, can see past his perfect facade, he knows that something is wrong.

Light is wrong. He can feel that in the very marrow of his bones. He is _wrong_, he is bad, awful, evil. And he is about to do worse things.

Thing is, he doesn't feel like stopping is even an option anymore.

He imagines that he can almost feel the pull of the Death Note. Oh, God, to have his memories back, to be a _person_ again, with memories intact and issues pushed back. He doesn't know if it is even possible, but he must, must, must try.

Because he can think of nothing else. If this doesn't work . . .

Light has nothing else. No other tricks up his sleeve. He wants to find Crowley, yes, but without the memories which he believes will make him stronger, more complete, he doesn't believe that he'll be self-assured enough to deal with the killer. If Light makes one mistake with Crowley, shows him one weakness, he is as good as dead.

He cannot afford it, which is why he cannot afford _not_ to be Kira. Kira doesn't make mistakes. Sometimes things go _wrong_ for him, but Kira always knows how to turn things to his advantage. There are no errors, just unprecedented opportunities.

But it is too far for tonight and Light sighs as he examine the little address in Chicago again. He'll get there; with B's help he'll get there and when he does . . .

There will be hell to pay.

The ride back to his and B's hotel room is a great deal less eventful than it has any right to be. They'd agreed to meet back there, as B had said that he had something of his own to find and Light hadn't exactly wanted company while dealing with Misa.

It isn't until Light his back in the room, sitting on the bed and just staring off into space for over an hour that he realizes that he has already started breaking down.

The knowledge doesn't help and he gets up to pace but the ceiling is a great deal lower than it was a few seconds ago and he feels like he's sliding; slouching down doesn't help and

yes, killing, like maybe killing Misa sounds like it could be kind of fun and

are the walls closer than they were before and where is the bed he was just sitting down on it he's tired of walking he's very tired very he'd

like he'd like to sleep . . .

And he's gone, he knows that it's too much thinking and too, much too little medication.

He _knows _that he needs that medication, he knows that without it he's a wreck and now . . .

Everything is

very

dark.

* * *

"_Light-kun!" _

_It was L's voice, and Light's eyelashes fluttered but he wasn't ready to wake up yet and face another day where his muscles seized up because they wouldn't stop trembling, another day where L tried to be kind and understanding and Light had to pretend that he wasn't just screaming even when he was quiet. _

"_Light, you must wake up," L said. _

"_Why?" Light asked back. _

_L looked short on patience already. He must not have slept. "It is breakfast time, Light," he managed to grind out. "And we must have a schedule."_

_Light considered. "No," he said. _

And the dream . . . changes_. _

_Instead of L dragging him out of bed and into the shower and making him go through their morning routine, instead L crawled onto the bed over him and tipped his chin up with one hand. _

_No, this wasn't right, Light thought. No, L didn't do this, he knew that it bothered Light. _

_L's fingers reached behind his head and pulled him up for a hot, hard kiss; his lips were insistent, even violent, and with a muffled protest Light tried to pull away._

_L dropped his head and then slapped him, hard. "Hold still!" L hissed. _

"_L,what the hell?" Light demanded. _

_L smiled sweetly at him and no, that wasn't L's smile and Light looked him over hard, looking for red eyes, for sharper teeth and ridges of old scars._

_But L's eyes were still black and narrowed in fury; his teeth were normal, just bared; and his face was smooth and impenetrable as ever. _

_This couldn't be happening. _

_It was. _

_L grabbed both of his hands and held them above his head as he descended again with harsh kisses. It would have felt good except he kept drawing blood and Light kept asking, kept telling him to get away, to stop it he didn't want it . . . _

"_L, you're hurting me!" Light gasped._

_L laughed, and Light flinched. "Am I?" he cooed unsympathetically. "Poor Light; he's so delicate. I should really be more careful—" He paused and bit Light so hard on his chest that it ripped skin and Light screamed—" shouldn't I?"  
"L, stop it!" Light demanded. _

"_No," L said, still grinning. "I've wanted you this whole time and you've just been too fragile, haven't you? You tease and you promise but you never deliver. I'm taking it this time, Light. I'm taking you, and it's going to _hurt_." _

_Light threw him off and ran to the door in a panic and he reached it but it wouldn't open it was stuck, he was stuck and L was sliding off the bed, laughing at him. _

"_Light," he purred. "Light, did you really think that B was the only one who was capable of being cruel? He's just a copy; I am the original and anything he can do . . ." L trailed off, chuckling, as he took slow measured steps towards Light. "Well, I can do it better." _

_Light looked around the room in desperation, trying to find something, some weapon or out, wondering if Watari was here, if there was anyone . . . _

"_No, Kira, there's no one," L told him, sounding self-satisfied. "I'm your protector, remember? And if I don't' think you're worth keeping, no one's going to argue with me. Especially not since you're Kira again, you little murderer."_

"_Stop it!" Light almost screamed, moving away from the door. L grabbed his wrist and slammed him up against the wood frame hard enough that he blinked, dazed. _

"_No," L whispered, voice delighted. He pulled him in for another bruising kiss. When Light made to resist, he hit him hard enough across the face that his body went slack and he let L lead him back to the bed. _

"_There we go," L murmured, laying him down and climbing over him. "There we go, Kira; be good now . . ."_

"_Please stop," Light whispered. _

_And L laughed again. "This is going to hurt," he whispered back._

_And then Light was screaming. _

* * *

He wakes up in a panic on the hotel room bed, his whole body shaking so hard that his muscles start seizing up and his teeth chatter. And then he opens his eyes, lashes soft on hard cheekbones, lids fluttering until he has a clear view of the room.

L is leaning over him with a grin on his face and blood on his lips and on his cheek and in his _eyes_. Light screams again, just like in his dream (dream, yes, it was a dream, it _has to be a dream_) and tries to push him away; but L grabs his wrist and holds him down, gently. His grasp is warm and wet and a little sticky and when Light looks closer in the dim hotel light, he can see that he's covered in still wet, still congealing blood.

His screaming stops and whimpering takes its place as L leans down and kisses gently along his jawline.

"Light," L whispers.

No, Light realizes, blinking hard as the remnants of his episode start to clear. Not L. B.

"B, stop it!" he whisper-screams, and B, laughing, takes one of Light's hands and runs it through the thickening blood on his shirt. His hands are so gentle, so different from the man in his dreams, and Light isn't certain if he should be relieved or horrified. He shudders and tries to jerk his hand away, but then B raises it to his mouth and licks the fingers clean.

"What is this?" Light asks, voice breaking even though it is soft. B leans down and runs blood-stained fingers through his hair as he answers.

He glances down at himself, giggling. "This?" B repeats. "This is Misa Amane."

* * *

A/N: Bwahahahahah yes I do this for fun. For. Fun.

I can still remember the fantastic midnight conversation I had with **Emery Board** that led to the last scene here. It was lovely, as was, I'm sure, all of your reactions to said scene.

No dolphins were injured in the posting of the last chapter, though I must admit that a few of you told me that I COULD injure/kill them if it struck my fancy. I heard some pretty creeptastic molester!dolphin stories, so thank you for that new nightmare guys. I appreciate it. Really.

(No.)

Anyways, pretty please let me know what you think of the killing Misa chapter (it's a personal favorite), and yes, she really is really, very, categorically dead. THIS IS NOT A TEST.


	9. Narrow

**Part 08 – Narrow**

**Posted 1.29.10**

_

* * *

_

_Click._

"What."

"Light?"

"Yeah; what?"

_Deep breath. _

"Where are you?"

"I'm back at the hotel, B, where else?"

"Light, this isn't . . ."

"Afraid I'd run off, were yo-"

"Which hotel?"

"The same fucking hotel we've been staying at for the past two or three days, B; should I _be _at another hotel?"

"The name of the hotel, Light. What is it?"

_Laughter—short lived. _

"You tell me—how the hell am I supposed to know? It's not like I made a great effort to look at the sign when you dragged me in here."

"Are you in Tokyo?"

"Quit screwing around, B. What do you want?"

"Light, this isn't B."

"Shut up, B; I'm not in the mood for this right now."

"This is L, Light."

"I said shut _up_, B. I'm not playing this game right now."

_Long pause. _

"Will you go outside and look at the name of the hotel so I can come and get you?"

"This isn't funny. I'm not buying it. And no, I most certainly will not leave this room to go downstairs to the reception desk and inquire after the name of the hotel."

"Light, please. I'm L."

_Laughter—longer this time._ "Like hell you are. I'm hanging up now, B."

"Last year a few days before your birthday, I found you in our room, sitting on our bed with a gun in your hands." _Words spilling out quickly, hastily. _"I talked you down, or so I thought, but when I got the gun from you, I realized that you had never even loaded any bullets in the chamber."

" . . . Oh my God."

"Light, please, it's okay. Just tell me where you are—I'm in Tokyo as well—and I can come get you."

_Long pause._ " . . . L?" _Tentative, frightened. _

"Yes, Light, it's me."

_Longest pause yet, then . . . soft, breath-catching laughter._

"Light, it's okay; you don't have to do anything. You don't have to worry about anything. I'll find you, you don't have to go anywhere. Just talk to me, okay? Are you okay?"

_Gasping for air._

"Light, are you hurt?"

_No sound. He's hung up? And then . . . _"Are you . . . kidding me?" _Words punctuated by soft, breathless giggles. _

"Light?"

"L Lawliet." _No laughter._

_Chills._ "Yes, Light."

"What are you doing here?"

"You know I'm trying to find you."

"Well, why haven't you found me then, detective?" _A sly grin insinuates itself into the words._

_Hands ball into fists._ "I'm _trying_. Do you _want _me to find you?"

"Oh, no, no. I wouldn't want to be a bother." _Light, airy._

"Light, I'm not going to give up. Please tell me where in Tokyo you are; it's not like you're in trouble."

_Loud, raucous laughter_. "Oh yes I am, L Lawliet. So . . . so much trouble. You can't even begin to imagine."

"Light, it's okay."

"No." _Dark voice. Dangerous._

_Sharp intake of breath. _

"It isn't."

"Okay, Light."

_Pause_.

"Light? . . . Light, please answer me."

"Oh, L. L Lawliet. Are you trying very hard to find me? Are you terribly worried about what I'm doing, where I'm going, what I'm going to do? Are you afraid that B is doing terrible things to me? Because you _should be_ and _he is_." _Ugly, unbalanced amusement and sarcasm hang heavy on every word._

"Light, tell me where you are!"_ Done playing. Done being nice. _

"Don't get all high and mighty with me, detective. I don't have to tell you anything I don't want to tell you and I don't want to tell you and you can't make me."

_Singsong tones make L cringe._ "Light." _Keep it steady, keep it under control._ "Light, I will find you. But I want you to tell me where you are. I don't want to look for you like you're just another common criminal."

"That's the thing though, isn't it, L? At this point, _I am_."

_Click. _

_Phone screen reads: Call ended. _

L stares at his hands; one of them is holding his cell phone, which is in danger of snapping in half from his hold; the other holds a small card with a sloppily-written cell phone number on the back. The handwriting looks as though the person's fingers were trembling when they wrote it down. It also has a few flecks of blood on it—as did the rest of Misa Amane's bureau. And her bed. And carpet. And ceiling.

Even after all these years of investigating, L will still sometimes find himself amazed at the range and strength of arterial spray. But that's neither here nor there.

L sits where he is for a long moment before his anxiety and anger get the best of him and, "Fuck," L says, standing up and beginning to pace. This is one of _those _situations, filed neatly into the Categorically Not Good department of his brain.

Those were the files that L usually just left alone for a few weeks until he felt that his psyche could handle it. In the case of Light being in the asylum, L had left that file alone for nearly five years. It still hadn't given him enough time and enough distance; he'd been emotionally compromised from the minute he made that phone call to Crowley.

And this time, he can't just leave it alone until he's ready to deal with it. L has only had to do with with very few cases, and most of those were in the beginning of his career—back when idealism and innocence were still on the menu. The Kira case, obviously, was one of those but in that case, not unlike his current one, he can't distance himself because of the proximity of his target. Previously, it had been because they lived together; now it's because he can't live without him. L can't just take a step back, take a deep breath and then jump in once he's distanced himself. He has to face this.

Now.

. . . _Now_.

Now?

L takes a deep shuddering breath and forces himself to act. "Watari?" He raises his voice to make sure he's heard.

"Yes, L?" Watari calls back from the main room.

"Have you tracked the cell phone's location yet?" First things first. If he can just find that cell phone, he won't have to pull out all the stops on this reconnaissance. And while he wouldn't mind utilizing the good policeforce of Japan, he does recall a certain Task Force of old that would still be in law enforcement. L can't imagine anything much worse than Matsuda, Mogi, Aizawa, or, God forbid, Yagami Soichiro (or any pernicious combination of the four) seeing Light. Much less seeing Light with someone who looks very much like L.

"Working on it," Watari answers. "It doesn't help that we don't know which cell phone carrier service he uses. It would be easier to communicate with that satellite directly."

"But we _can _track it, correct?"

"Yes, L. It should be done within the hour."

L says nothing, but they're both thinking: _Light and B could be gone within the hour. _

Instead, L keeps thinking furiously, with the restless, anxious intensity of someone who knows just how limited their options are—but doesn't want to admit it.

Think. _Think_. He's never had to tell himself this, never had to consciously order his brain to pick up the pace a little. Think.

Watari is tracing Light's cell phone (or B's maybe, though L has no idea why either of them would need to use it). It will be done within the hour.

_They could be gone within the hour. Disappeared, to God knows where. _

_Calm down. _

_I'm calm. I'm very calm. This is me being calm about losing someone who means . . . who I've . . . just . . . Light. This is me being calm about losing Light. _

_You're bleeding, genius. _

L blinks and looks down in surprise. When the hell had that happened? Gingerly, he pulls his hand away from his mouth and examines the damage. Not bad; it should stop bleeding on its own and _what the hell is he doing?_

He just needs to _think_.

Why can't he think of anything to do? It's like he's stuck, just . . . frozen. His mind is almost a complete blank. There has to be something—of course there's something, he's L—more he can do. He cannot forget how brilliant Light—and B, yes, him too—can be and is. He needs to be one step ahead, he needs to be thinking about what they're planning on doing next so he can stop them. No matter Light's feelings—whether he hates L or wants to run away—this isn't just about Light anymore. L has a murder case on his hands, and B is not getting away with this one.

So why can't he just figure this out?

He pauses, breathing a little heavy, only realizing how quickly he'd been pacing and how restless his hands had been when he forces himself to stop moving completely.

He needs to do something. He has to, or he'll lose. He will lose the case, he will lose respect, he will lose . . .

A soft voice that's been getting stronger ever since Light left whispers to him that he'll lose everything in losing Light. Nothing else matters—this is an all-or-nothing game. L will not settle for a life without him; without his brilliance and his ragged honesty and his courage and his . . . love? Hatred? L will take anything Light will give him.

If he can even get him back. Light is everything now, and the logical side of L realizes that this is stupid, realizes how dramatic he sounds, but the other part of him tells the former to shut the fuck up, what good has logic ever done him?

L sits down on the bed and pulls his knees up to his chest. He thinks maybe this will help him start thinking properly, but instead he just finds himself running his hands through his hair and rubbing them over his eyes, as though blinding himself will make it all go away.

_No fair_, he thinks quietly. _None of it . . . no part of this is fair. It's not fair for anyone; not me or Light or Whammy or Mello and Matt. Not even fair for B, although it is not-fair in his favor. _

L shudders as he thinks of B, and what Light said on the phone— _Are you afraid that B is doing terrible things to me? Because you should be and he is._ Why would Light say that? If it's true, why would Light let B? Is it some sort of . . . payment?

L can't even think further than that. His mind, which doesn't cringe away from examining the most minute details on fresh cadavers and which hadn't even really been fazed at the scene in Misa's apartment, cannot even begin to imagine B and Light having intimate relations.

_When was the last time you and Light had 'intimate relations'?_ The snide, sly voice in his mind is getting louder and L thinks that he might have just a small taste of what Light feels like every day._ Never, that's when_, it continues.

Oh God, what if Light actually prefers B to L? B is the one he had in the asylum, not L. B is the one helping him accomplish the only goals he's managed to form in the past seven or eight years. B is the one who isn't lying to him, or so they think . . .

_What are you going to do with him if you get him back? Lock him up? Put him under house arrest? Use that God-forsaken chain again? How are you going to make this_ right_? _

_Shut up,_ he tells the voice furiously. He doesn't know what he'll do once he gets Light back. He doesn't know much of anything except that this isn't _right_, that after everything they've been through they at least deserve to be together; whether it's happiness together or misery together, L hardly cares or even can tell the difference anymore.

He just wants . . .

He just wants Light.

_I just want Light._ The thought makes something inside him crumble a little and he hunches over a bit more.

Light Yagami, that's who he's doing this for. Not Kira, or that prisoner in the second basement of Crowley's Institute for the Criminally Insane.

He wants _Light_, who is good and innocent and kind and who lives up to his name. He wants the Light he knew when they were chained together for months on end. Who would argue with him and get him cake, even if he grumbled while he was doing it. Who wasn't above getting into a pillow fight with him in the middle of the night because he was exhausted and L wouldn't go to bed.

Who loved him.

L shakes his head, trying and failing to clear it. He cannot do this right now. He needs to think. He needs to be L, not L Lawliet or Ryuuzaki. All his aliases are blending together now; they started the day he decided to break Light out of prison and now everything's jumbled and messy and horrible.

And he_ keeps getting fucking distracted._

"Goddammit," he mutters under his breath. He finally raises his head, determined at least to get up and start pacing again if nothing else. His eyes lock with Whammy's from across the room.

Whammy doesn't say anything for a moment. He just hands L the tray of food he's holding and then sits down next to him on the bed.

Finally, after watching L pick at his food uninterestedly for a moment, he starts, "L-"

"I know!" L bursts out. "I know, I'm overreacting and my emotions are hindering my judgment and I should be thinking, should be doing something right now. I know, Whammy, but I can't. I can't be objective; I can't even _think_. I've been trying since I hung up with Light and it's like I'm running blind, I can't see anything, I can't think of what to do, or what will help him."

L does not cry. He does not even look like he's about to. But his terribly dry eyes are dark with a sort of loathing that Whammy has no doubt is directed at his own self.

Whammy forgoes the speech he was going to give—which, incidentally, was in no way about any of the things L just said. Instead, he says, "L, we are going to find them. We're extremely close. We will find them. Not just you anymore, because all of us—you and I, and Matt and Mello—are working on this. You don't need to panic."

Oh, yeah. That's what it's called.

"I'm not panicking," L says, but the utter lack of conviction in his dry voice is nowhere near convincing.

Whammy chooses not to comment on it and instead stands; he still has work to do if they're going to trace that phone. "I know you aren't. That's why you are going to eat that because you know it helps you think," he says, gesturing towards the plate of cookies he's brought in. "And then you're going to sit down at one of the computers until you can think of something productive to do."

"How is sitting still going to help anything?" L protests.

"If you'll just place yourself in a position to receive inspiration, your extraordinary mind will do the rest. It's habit," Whammy suggests.

L hates that idea, but since he hates pretty much everything and everyone right now, he has nothing to lose.

_Except Light_, that voice reminds him.

_Shut up. _

* * *

It takes him a full plate of cookies plus a few cupcakes, but Whammy turns out to be right. Just fifteen minutes shy of the cell-phone-is-located mark, L is struck by a thought he should have had _days _ago and picks up his own cell phone and dials a new number. Matt picks up.

"'Lo?" he asks. L momentarily and crossly wonders why no one ever uses proper greetings anymore, then realizes that he is distancing himself again and makes more of an effort to reinvolve himself with the situation.

"Matt, how are you feeling?" Crisis situation or not, Matt is still seriously injured and temporarily cross-eyed because of L.

"Much better, thanks." As always, Matt can tell what L is feeling, even if he says nothing about it. His easygoing manner in the face of L's poor attempt at casual conversation says a lot more than he ever could anyways.

"Matt, if you are feeling up to it, do you think that you and Mello could send out a message to the NPA with a description of B and an order to detain?"

If L can't find him by himself, he'll let the good policemen of Japan do it. This way, at least he knows they won't be able to leave the country. If they're trapped in Japan, and likely in Tokyo, L will be able to find them. He believes this.

Mostly. "Sure, no prob." Matt doesn't ask any questions, and L will be forever grateful for his nonchalance and competence. As they speak, L hears Matt mutter something to Mello and start tacking away at a keyboard. "Should I have them contact you if they find him?"

"Yes, since you'll be addressing them as me. Use the voice modulation program."

"On it. And Light?"

"I'll find Light. If B is out of the picture, Light will likely be paralyzed without someone to assist him." L realized this after several agonizing moments of imagining B getting arrested and refusing to tell them where Light was hiding. He had been afraid that arresting B meant Light would be wandering dangerous streets alone, with no idea when his next episode would come and no way to defend himself when he did. But what he'd said was true—without a crutch, Light would be paralyzed by his agoraphobia and general anxiety. Without B, he wasn't going anywhere.

"I meant, what if they find Light along with B?" Matt asks.

"I'm going to risk it." L's voice is steely, and if Matt were any less of an empathetic person, he wouldn't be able to detect the terrified undertones.

If the NPA found out that Light was out of the asylum, and under L's care . . . he would never get another case. He would lose everything he's worked on. And Light could be in danger.

Matt knows this, but he knows that L does too, so he doesn't say a word about it. "Okay. I'll contact you once I've sent out the order."

L hangs up.

* * *

15 miles away, Light Yagami shivers on his bed and moves the phone away from himself inch by inch so that it eventually goes toppling over and then bounces underneath the bed.

There. Now there's no way to get it back because Lord knows what sort of monsters live under the bed and Light is not going down there, no matter how much every part of him wants to hear L's voice again.

* * *

Matt is on the couch, working on L's orders with Mello sitting on the floor beside him (working on a sketch of B that doesn't look too much like L) when suddenly, Mello's phone starts ringing. And Matt starts laughing at him.

Mello doesn't think for a minute that Matt is laughing at the fact that he's getting a call; probably he's laughing because the phone is playing "Barbie Girl."

Mello glares at him as he fumbles for the phone, all the while trying to explain, "It's not my normal ringtone, my normal one is Bon Jovi, of course, but this one is the set tone for Near." Matt stares at him. "Y'know, because Near . . . plays with dolls, and . . . and the ringtones are locked now and . . . I'm answering my phone now," Mello declares, expression darkening as Matt starts laughing at him again.

"Your mother was a whore," Mello says, by way of greeting. It's downright friendly, by his standards.

"I am certain that if anyone would know, it would be Mello. You paid for her services a number of times, did you not?"

Mello's mouth hangs open and Matt reaches down gently to close it. "You're gonna start drooling, honey," Matt says, patting him on the head.

Mello slaps his hand away. "Holy shit, Near. Where did you learn about comebacks?"

"I do not work alone, you know."

"Yeah, but don't you, like, freak out your coworkers? Or peons, if that's what you want to call them. Like, don't they all sort of tiptoe around you in an effort to escape your Z-targeting gaze?"

Mello blames Matt for that last comment. Fuck Zelda.

There's a pause.

"Be that as it may," Near tells him, "they have still all decided it would be best if I learned the rules of basic human interaction. I believe that it's something of a game to them." Another pause. "I also believe that Gevanni just scored 20 points as he's the one who educated me about 'your mom' jokes. And Halle gets another 35 for explaining prostitution."

"Oh . . . oh my God."

"Yes, oh your God."

"Wha- Oh. Who gets points for that one?"

"No one; that was from me."

A really, really long pause while Mello tries to quell the rising panic. If Near gets as good at comebacks and social skills as he is at everything else, Mello won't stand a chance. Especially since Near already has the advantage of cuteness. Seriously. It's not like Mello thinks he's cute, oh _hell _to the no. But Mello _has _seen total strangers pat him on the head and ask him if he's lost before when they were out walking in New York City.

New York fucking City.

As in, the place where people jerk you into dark alleyways in full view of the cops, not to steal your wallet, but just to scare the hell out of you and beat the crap out of you. The place where Mello had once, through absolutely no virtue of his own, been threatened with either bodily harm or death no less than 36 times in one day. And he had been at _church_.

"Shall we start over?" Near asks, and doesn't wait for a reply before, "Mello," Near says pleasantly. "How are you?"

"Shut up, Near," Mello responds, just as pleasantly, secretly grateful that he doesn't have to own up to Near's last insult. "What do you want?"

"Have I called at a bad time?" Near asks.

"It's always a bad time when you're the one doing the calling, now seriously Near, what do you want from me?"

"Hmmm . . ." Near is most likely processing the information that Mello just gave him.

"I'm hanging up now," Mello tells him after exactly 2 seconds of silence.

"I'll just call back again."

"I don't care."

"I wasn't finished," Near comments blithely. "I was going to say, I'll just call back again. And again. And again, and again until you'll either have to destroy your cell phone or just resign yourself to a future of listening nonstop to 'Barbie Girl'."

There's a pause. "Dammit, Near," Mello finally says. "Fine, okay, I'm listening. How did you know what your ringtone was, anyways?"

"I have my sources," Near tells him.

Mello glares at Matt, who gives him a beatific smile and stretches on the couch indolently, showing just how little Mello's wrath means to him. He's lucky he has a friggin' concussion, or there would be some serious hurt going on.

"What did you want again?" Mello asks.

"I wanted your opinion on a case I've taken," Near says.

Mello's expression becomes skeptical. "Why?"

"Because I'm not getting anywhere since the murderer is . . ." Blah blah blah his needs . . . Mello admires his fingernails (painted black, thanks very much) as he waits for Near to finish up his little case summary. Group of people methodically murdering some other people . . . blah blah blood . . . blah injuries blah . . . something about a worldwide epidemic (_for Godiva's sake, what does this have to do with me?_) . . . Aaaand ah ha! That's what Mello had been waiting for. His expert opinion on the Mafia and their goings-on was a must as Near highly suspected they were behind the whole grisly operation.

"Nope," Mello says. He's not even sure that what he said made sense in the context of what Near was saying. All he knows is that Near plus Mafia plus Mello equals disaster. He'd proven that on more than one occasion.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Near asks crossly.

"Means that, little as you may believe it, I'm actually working on my own case right now, my little pajama-clad rival."

Mello can practically see Near wrinkling his nose. "What case?" he asks. Probably wondering why he wasn't contacted for it.

"None of your business," Mello says gleefully, and hangs up.

Matt glances at him. "You've got some serious interpersonal communication issues, you know that?" he asks dryly.

"I know," Mello agrees.

Matt swoops down and kisses him. "Good," he says. "Now get back to work."

"You're not the boss of me."

"I'm running this op," Matt declares, "because I'm the only one who knows how to hack L's server after we're done so we can go through his case files and solve a few to alleviate our crushing boredom."

Mello ponders. "You _are _a god of technology," he concedes.

"Seconded," Matt agrees. "Now, there will be no more discussion as to who's in charge of who around here."

Mello grabs him and kisses him, harder, and he can feel Matt melt as he grabs his hair from behind and crushes their mouths together. He pulls away when he feels Matt start to lean forward. No sense in having him fall off the couch and garner another concussion.

"Okay, okay, you can be in charge," Matt says breathlessly.

"Damn straight I'm in charge," Mello declares.

"Now get back to work."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

A door slams and heavy footsteps drag across the carpet. Light closes his eyes tighter and pretends that it's L.

It isn't.

B shakes him roughly and continues to grip his shoulders even after he's opened his eyes.

"I wasn't asleep," Light says quietly. He isn't sure, now, how to feel or act around B. He's been in a quiet sort of mood—rare for him—since he spoke with L on the phone. He feels like he's thinking clearly, but that suggests that he isn't at all.

B doesn't say anything—although he is looking at Light in a way he doesn't like at all.

Light sits up, blinking to make his eyes focus. He hadn't been asleep, no, but he had been trying for the better part of an hour to do so.

B's looking at him from very close up now, because when Light sat up, he didn't move an inch. Light can't tell what B's thinking, but suddenly his fathomless (_red_) eyes are very close and seem . . . concerned?

Trick of the light, no doubt. Or B's phenomenal acting skills.

B leans in even closer and slides his lips along Light's jaw, kissing lightly, as Light shudders, trying to think of a way to stand this and at the same time trying to stop the faint feeling of arousal it produces.

"Light." Light can't see B's face anymore; their cheeks are pressed together, and B whispers directly in his ear.

"Weren't we supposed to be leaving sometime today?" Light asks.

"Later," B murmurs. "We have time for this at least."

His voice is gentle and measured and the timbre is not at all his own.

Light knows what this means, and he shivers, partly out of fear, and partly . . . anticipation. He hates himself for this. For doing this.

"Light, you seem upset." B speaks gently. "Are you all right?"

He's going to do it anyway.

One cold hand cradles his face while the other is slowly sliding down his chest.

Light is trembling more noticeably now and he moves backwards in an attempt to see B's eyes, to differentiate, because B has been doing this for _years_, and he's much much too good at it.

"Light, please, you have to tell me what's wrong," he murmurs, and he's got L's speaking patterns exactly right too.

"Stop it," Light finally says, choking on words that seem too loud in the small space between their bodies.

B's fingers have found his jeans and he rubs his open palm against the slight bulge there, working slowly, building up deliciously, blinding Light with the pressure and the _want_.

Oh God, he wants this to be L. And after that phone call. He _wants _L; wants him here, wants to be with him.

Convenient, since B wants to be L.

Maybe it would be okay one time?

It's not like he can get any crazier.

B kisses his throat, softly, and then nips at it gently, doesn't even draw blood, so this can't be B, right? There's no way B would do this and not want to taste his blood.

Light bites down hard on his lip to keep himself from saying . . . from saying anything, really. The hand that still rests on his face is cool and gentle and strokes over his cheek with light fingers. The other hand slowly pulls down his zipper, inch by excruciating inch, never letting up the pressure for a moment.

Light can't take it anymore—he's either going to have to commit to this or let everything go—either more stimulation or a whole hell of a lot less. He brings a hand up and feels B's face—the side that doesn't have the scars.

His hips jerk as B's hand works through layers of denim and cotton and his hands are cold, but so, so _good_.

Light closes his eyes, stops fighting.

"Light?" it is almost whispered, and the voice is like silk, it's that soft and slippery. Hot breath tickles his ear and a curious tongue runs along the outer rim and further inside, making Light moan and grip the other man's shirt tightly. "Light, tell me what you want."

That _voice_. Those _hands_.

"Tell me if I'm going too fast." The voice sounds caring and gentle and even has an edge of concern spinning along the outer edge. "Tell me what you _want_."

Light lets his head rest back on the headboard and surrenders. "L, please," he says to the man in front of him. "I want this; you know I want it, _please_, L."

Face pressed against Light's collarbone, B grins.

* * *

Light wants to shower afterwards. He want to wash his hair and scrub down his body and pretend like that isn't going to weigh heavy on his conscience for the rest of his life. He wants to be alone, without either B or L. He wants hot water and bleary-eyed oblivion. He wants to be able to cry without B seeing him.

Oh God, why did he do that? _Why _did he let himself? He's so tired, just utterly fucking exhausted. He doesn't want to face what he just did. He doesn't want to own it.

He's just . . . he's scared and tired and so so confused. Doesn't it ever get better? He's even tired of asking whether or not it gets better.

And his head is spinning and he almost laughs when he realizes that he's been more or less sane for the better part of an hour and realizes that it must be B who grounds him.

He has no answers and can't stand to dwell on it anymore, and so he picks the next best thing and starts to gingerly make his way over to the bathroom. He almost gets there.

B finds the cell phone underneath the bed as Light moves towards a hot shower and isolation, and he pulls it out to examine it.

"Why was this under the bed?" he asks.

Light shrugs, doesn't turn around. His expression would give him away, he knows this.

"Light!" B voice whipcracks across his indifference and, cringing, he turns around.

"What?" he asks, horrified to see that B is scrolling through the phone's menus.

"Just out of curiosity," B says, and the sweet tones don't cover up the rancid malice underneath, "who were you talking to for over five minutes while I was gone? Who exactly would you _need _to be talking to?"

Light shrugs again, and before he can blink, B is in front of him, pressing him against the wall in a way that does not suggest a repeat of what they just did but rather open threats and an intent to harm.

"I would rather you tell me, since I don't know that we even have time to get you all terrified and hurt and bleeding," B says with a vicious sneer.

"L!" Light snaps, and B doesn't think for a moment that Light is just confusing the two of them again. "L called," Light continues, quietly.

"What time was this?" B demands.

"Hell if I know," Light snaps back. B knows damn well that Light's grasp on time is tenuous at best.

Snarling, B shoves him aside hard enough that his already-sore backside hits the ground. Light bites his lip and draws blood to keep from screaming.

B scrolls through the phone and finds what he's looking for, apparently, because his eyes flicker over to the clock on the nightstand. The glowing red numbers inform them both that it is now 1:07.

B starts laughing and turns away from Light. "Okay, get up, we're leaving," he instructs.

"Why?" It's a stupid question.

"That's a stupid question," B informs him.

"L talked to you exactly one hour and one minute ago."

"So?"

"So where did your fucking brain go, Light?" B asks him, and although Light thinks that B is at least agitated by the way he's speaking, he's still grinning as he moves around the room.

"Wait, what?" Light asks. "What are you talking about, and _what are you doing__?"_

What B is doing is gathering scraps of paper and the sheets and pouring vodka from the mini fridge on them and the surrounding carpet. And then what he's doing is lighting a match and throwing it on the whole mess. The floor is instantly ablaze and B waits for another precious moment before he tosses the cell phone into the middle of it.

"What the hell?"

"We live in the 21st century, Light; do you honestly think that L doesn't have the capacity to trace cell phone signals?"

Light shrugs and pulls himself to his feet; a good thing, since directly afterwards, B grabs his arm and starts dragging him along.

"Why isn't he here, then?" Light demands.

"If he doesn't know who the service carrier is, then it takes at minimum one hour to trace everything. I have no doubt he's on his way." B pauses and lets out a stream of breathless laughter. "Isn't this _fun_?"

On the way down to the lobby, B pauses long enough to start three fires in the hallway, one in the elevator, and one just by rewiring the vending machine. "There," B says as he and Light stand in the crowded lobby. People look at them a little curiously, but for the most part, everyone just mills around them.

"What are we waiting for?" Light demands softly.

"You'll see," B murmurs back. B is still holding his arm, and Light isn't quite sure what he wants to do. He could stay here—that's all he has to do, all he almost wants to do. He doesn't have to work at anything else; L will find him if he just _stays_.

"I know what you're thinking," B says quietly. "And I don't care if you stay here _except _you're entertaining and _except _that would be giving L what he wants. And I just want to ask you if you remember what you're even in this for?"

"Crowley," Light murmurs. His pulse quickens as he adds, "The Death Note."

B looks him directly in the eye. "Stay if you want, Light," he says, for once deadly serious. "But do remember that you'll never get this chance again. Go ahead and go back—but you will go back to being the same."

B's wrong, Light thinks immediately. He won't be the same. If he doesn't finish this, he'll be worse. Light knows that truth every bit as much as he knows that he was once Kira.

B must see the resolve in his expression because he grins and chuckles softly. "I hope you're having fun," he says, "because that's what any of this is all about."

Before Light has a chance to think about that or ask for clarification, a number of people run down the staircase screaming, and Light catches the word, "fire!" in there somewhere (it helps that he can also smell smoke on their clothes as they run past), at the precise moment that the front doors open and who should run in but a full team of Japan's elite police force.

At a walk—rather than a run—and with his same stupid slouch and same focused expression and even the same clothes that Light knows so well, L is right behind them.

* * *

A/N: Hahahahahaha I do this for fun! Guys, srsly, I have been working on this for _weeks. _Yes, weeks. I've written a half dozen drafts. Effing writer's block. bleeaaargghhhh.

But! After much tweaking and twisting and weeping and insomnia over this chapter, I finally have something I'm satisfied with. Well, maybe not quite satisfied. But I'm really, really tired of looking at it, and it's adequate, and it moves the plot along (*plot-driven readers: FINALLY!!*), AND you guys get an update!!

I hope you're happy, you little hellions. Nah, you guys have been great; I love all the encouraging/panicked/derogatory reviews I get with people telling me that I NEED to update or they'll DIE.

I'm not going to threaten the mammals this time, just because I'm too tired to carry out any of my threats. But if seeing an update in this made you happy, think about how happy seeing REVIEWS for this will make me!

Hint: Very, very happy. So happy I think it might be illegal in some states.

Thanks for reading!


	10. Nothing

**Part 10 - Nothing**

**Posted as of 2.19.10**

* * *

He's a fifty yards away, maybe, and Light cannot stop staring. The distance between them doesn't matter, he can make out every feature, every gesture . . . He can see him as clearly as if they stood next to one another.

But L hasn't seen them—not yet.

"Oh, Light," B murmurs, "I do believe that's our dear detective." He's going for amusement, Light can tell, but B's voice holds a breathless quality that could be anticipation or fear or maybe even both. "He looks concerned, doesn't he?"

"Yes . . ." Light says absently. He can see L's eyes skimming the crowded lobby area, searching, scanning over the people who don't matter, flitting over the crowd that is beginning to realize they're in danger and rush towards the front doors, searching until . . .

Their eyes lock, and for a moment . . .

There is silence.

Soft, oppressive. Gentle, in its own way. Merciful, certainly. And somehow, entirely just.

Light's mouth is dry. He feels numb, with pins and needles prickling everywhere. He feels . . . nothing, yet some sensations—the ringing in his ears, the bruising quality of B's hold on his arm, the glare of the summer afternoon sun on gleaming gunmetal carried by the police fore—are incredibly acute.

And none of this even matters.

As he watches L, Light distantly notes that the silence takes on a heavy quality. He feels very far away from everything, like he's watching from a distance, through a telescope maybe, and all he can see is a very limited area. He can't see anything else but L, everything is L (but everything always _is_, why does he think that will have changed?), he can't hear anything because L isn't near enough to pick up what he's saying.

His other senses still seem to be intact, and as he stares, in the back of his mind, he notes that there's a new smell, a new taste in the air. Light wets his lips, noticing as he does that he's been clenching his teeth. When he closes his mouth again, he tastes ash.

B's grip on his arm tightens. Light flinches at that, but otherwise doesn't move. He thinks that maybe B is saying something to him, he can sort of hear a faint murmur, but it's so soft and cannot compete with the rushing of blood in his ears and the roaring of something dangerous and beautiful.

The guns move, in unison, a flock of black birds all swoop as one to stare at him.

Then, he's looking at the floor.

Light blinks, hard, realizes his eyes are entirely too dry and blinks some more. The sound rushes in, cascading and crashing around him, washing him away. And everything changes.

The ringing in his ears becomes people screaming, feet pounding on marble floors, and the crack and snap of flames somewhere above him. He can see the ash he's been tasting, floating and falling everywhere, making his eyes sting and water. It looks almost like the snow they'd had last winter.

And then there's B, who is still holding onto his arm tightly enough that he imagines he can feel his bones creaking.

"Light, we have to move," B is saying, and he sounds serious but it's undermined because he's still grinning.

"What?" is Light's brilliant contribution to the conversation.

"Unless you'd like to be trampled?" B asks. "We've got to get behind the front desk before people really start running."

Light follows him then; now that he can't see L anymore (now that L can't see him anymore), Light finds that he can breathe, just barely. They make it behind the desk, though Light has a number of people trip over him and he has a good number of brand new bruises to show for the experience.

Light feels the building shake with another explosion—he realizes that that's what he'd felt before, when he'd been staring at L.

Realizing this, he turns to B. "You made _bombs_?" he hisses.

"Don't be silly," B tells him. "Don't you know that air conditioning units and vending machines tend to explode when faced with heat and pressure? What do they teach children at school these days?"

Light is about to snap back when he realizes—they have bigger problems. "B, how the hell are we going to get out of here? There's a task force out there with really serious guns and I doubt they were called in for crowd control . . ." B hasn't answered, not exactly, but Light stops speaking anyway. B is laughing at him again.

"Do I have to explain everything?" B asks, still grinning at him. "Do you think they're going to come into an unstable, burning building from which hundreds of panicking people are exiting? Even if they could get through the crowd, they won't put their lives in danger just for us."

Light peers around the edge of the desk and yes, B's right, the task force has been forced out onto the street. And so, presumably, has L.

Light tries to forcibly crush the feeling of bitter disappointment and the fluttery feeling of anxiety that washes over him as he realizes that L is . . . well, not gone, since he's likely waiting for them to come out. But not here.

"Well," Light murmurs, "well, then, how do _we_ get out without being noticed?"

B laughs again. "The crowd is in our favor, Light," he tells him. "This whole situation will work for us."

"So, we just move out with the crowd and hope they don't see us?"

"Nope. We go up a floor, pick a room, and start screaming."

* * *

"There's still more people in there! We have more time, we need to get them out!"

"Damn it, the building's not totally stable anymore!"

_He was so hot, and everything was so red . . . _

"Come on, then, one more run and then we're out of there for good."

"Yeah, okay. You take the second floor; I'm on the first."

_And he remembers how his world used to be made in watercolors and oil paints; chalk and crayons and nontoxic markers. Steaming, wet black blankets for Lethe, for oblivion, for sleep and terror; hard, bruised violets for nightmares; soft, cotton candy blue for calm, for L; searing, blood-orange red for rage, for frustration, for existence. _

"Hello? . . . Hello! If anyone's still in here, call out to me!"

"Help me!"

_Now, everything is red, is hot, is life and life is fire. The insides of his eyelids burn the same as when his eyes are open. _

"Are you there?"

"I'm in here! Please help! Please!"

_There is no more air, and when he tries to breathe, his lungs burn and violet blossoms across his irises, so dark he's nearly gone. _

"I see you, I see you, it's okay, I'm coming!"

"Please hurry; I think he's hurt!"

_Hurt? Did they mean him?_

"Are you okay? Here, breathe into this while I get your friend. What happened to him?"

"I don't know! I can't get him to move!"

_His world twists and the edges coalesce, folding together and crumpling like a tin can. No air, no nothing, he is solid, dense . . . _

_ He is nothing. _

_ White. _

_ Minutes, seconds, days later? _

_ The sound of breathing; light, quick, labored. _

_ Frightened. _

His own.

Heightened senses pick up the gentle scratch of clothing as it shifts across his chest, moving in time with his lungs.

His fingers clench and tremble on his command. He blinks his eyes open. He connects with reality one more time.

Two thoughts:

One: the human body is so fucking resilient.

Two: _fuck_.

"Good, you're awake."

His eyes shift and focus. Dark hair, pale skin.

Scars. Crimson eyes.

"B." His voice is a croak, a puff of air. Almost nothing (like him . . .?). "Where . . ."

"Ambulance. Come on, we gotta go. Get up."

His intelligence returns to him and he scans the inside of the ambulance, lets his fingers play across the oxygen mask they've strapped to his face.

"Come on," B urges again.

"I'm on fucking oxygen!"

"Well, you're well enough to argue so I doubt that you're in that bad of shape."

"I almost died, you fucker!"

B rolls his eyes. "Oh, please," he says. "You had an episode and passed out. You're on oxygen for smoke inhalation, you weren't burned at all, and your color is back. Sit up."

Light complies, not because B told him to, but because the ambulance is slowing down and he figures if he looks well enough, they might not try to force him into the hospital. He stares at B. "You're dressed as a firefighter," he finally says.

"Poor guy never made it out of the hotel." B undermines his mourning with a sharp smile.

Light stares for another moment, then groans and puts his face in his hands.

"You would have preferred to burn to death?" B asks.

"Why the hell did that guy have to die? We all could have gone out together!"

"Because," B says with exaggerated patience, "we couldn't have just waltzed out together—L was still on the scene, still watching."

Light doesn't answer that, but he also has a sinking feeling that he is going to have to answer to these murders.

* * *

They reach the hospital within a matter of minutes then, and B assures the EMT that both he and Light will go in and receive medical attention for the oxygen deprivation.

The ambulance drives away. It's almost painfully easy to fool people. Light realizes with a jolt that he can _lie _again, and it doesn't cost him a thing. Maybe because he's not lying to L?

B looks at him and grins, and Light finds himself returning the sentiment out of sheer relief and the trembling aftershocks of adrenaline still causing little tremors in his veins.

"Come on," B says, tugging him towards the parking lot. "We're almost clear."

"Nothing's ever simple when it comes to your plans, is it, B? What is it now?"

"We need transportation, Light," Be says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.

And, considering the fact that Light feels as though his brain has been forcibly removed, scrambled, then sloppily poured back into his skull, it very well may have been.

"We're stealing someone's car?" Light demands. "Someone who is currently parked at the _hospital_?" He watches as B struggles out of his costume and scans the parking lot for likely victims.

"You think there's any way you're not headed straight for hell anyway?" B counters, looking amused. His eyes light up as he spots what apparently is to be their car.

"Death Note users can't go to heaven or hell," Light murmurs, almost absently, focusing on dragging his feet across the asphalt to follow B.

B grins as he shatters one of the car windows and pulls a screwdriver out of his pocket. Light is not even going to ask where he got that. "Guess you've got nothing to worry about," he says. The car is hot-wired in seconds and, "Get in," B says.

Light takes one last deep breath, coughs because he still has smoke in his lungs, and obeys.

* * *

"Goddammit!"

"L-"

"Watari, we were _right there_! I _saw _him; I saw both of them!"

"L, you couldn't have guessed the fire-"  
"I _could have, _and I _should have_. B understands technology. He would know we can trace them. He's always had a gift for pyrotechnics and distraction. I should have known. I should have been there sooner, I should have brought more policemen!"

"L!"

"No! Watari, no! _I know better. _I know B better, and I absolutely know Light better. I should have been _better_."

* * *

"Where are we going now?" Light's voice is weary, he is slumped in his seat. His glazed eyes scan the buildings flashing past out of sheer instinct, though he sees nothing.

"Since when have you taken an interest in that sort of thing?" B asks back. "I thought you were just along for the ride?"

"Damn it, B! Where are we going?"

B laughs. "Lighten up," he says, and Light cringes at the horrible pun. "When did you lose your sense of humor?"

Light is quiet for a minute. "Just . . . where are we going, B?" he asks.

"We've got to get cleaned up," B says. "We have a plane to catch."

* * *

"This is a _disaster_. An entire hotel burned to the ground. Four people _died,_ and another couple dozen are in the hospital. And Light and B are _gone_."

"So, what?"

L stops pacing and stares at him. "What?" he asks stupidly. Wow. He doesn't think he's ever been able to use that adverb to describe himself before.

"So, what are you going to do?" Whammy asks. "Are you going to stay here complaining about it or are you going to _fix it_? Why did you spend years training your mind if you were just going to ignore it the first time a crisis situation really hit you?"

"I'm not allowed to be upset or angry at the way this turned out?" L demands.

"Do you think that will help?" Whammy counters. "Do you think B and Light are taking a breather right now to recover from their scare? Or that they've put the game on pause? They're _moving_, L, and you need to be too."

"I don't understand what you want!" L exclaims. "I have _nothing_, Whammy. B has all the cards! I have no idea where they'll go at this point—if they have the Death Note or if they're after Crowley or what their objective is. I can't do anything until I figure out what they _want_."

"You know what they want, L," Whammy argues. "B wants to keep Light away from you, and he wants you to panic and he wants you hurt. Light wants something he can never really recover—his old self—and he's willing to do anything to get it. Now _what does that tell you_?"

"We're going to an _airport_? Are you _insane_?"

"That's a phenomenally stupid question, Light, and I choose to allow you a moment to collect yourself and try asking something smarter."

* * *

"This is L."

"L, this is Director Yagami."

"Yes, go ahead."

"One of our officers spotted the suspect in the Harajuku district."

"And?"

"He contacted us, then tried to detain him. That's the last we heard from him."

"Did he send you an address?"

"Yes, I'll send you the information he emailed us right now."

"Thank you, Director."

_Click. _

Laughter. "We've got you, you son of a bitch."

"Call L and tell him, Mel. He'll want some good news after what happened in the raid on the hotel."

* * *

"You're certain it was him?"

"Yeah, look at the second page; the officer took a sketchy picture of B."

L's heart seizes up. "Did he also get-"

"No, Light's not in there. Maybe they've separated?"

He tries to control his breathing. "Yes, maybe. Is this the address?"

"Yeah, but when the officer went against orders and tried to restrain B himself, they lost contact with him."

"Damn it, that means B's killed him and now he knows we're after him. Tell the police not to send any information unless it's over channels unaccessible to officers at that man's rank. B doubtless took everything on his person, including his cell phone, computer, and anything else."

"His gun?"

"Possible. B doesn't use them, but he'd probably think it useful to have to threaten someone with."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm already in the car, on my way there."

* * *

"Okay, change of plans!"

Light looks at him through narrowed eyes. B is—almost predictably—covered in blood. He climbs into the car and starts the engine, throwing a bag of clothing at Light.

"What the hell?" Light asks, a bit weakly. He catches the bag but doesn't bother to look in it. He is very strongly reminded of the night B came home after killing Misa. "Wait, where did you go?"

"I told you, we need new clothes. We can't go anywhere smelling like smoke."

"You told me told me that? When?"  
"A few minutes ago when-"

"Wait. No. This is not important. You are covered in blood, why?"  
B giggles. "The police are looking for me," he says, sounding positively delighted. He points to the screen of a phone he's acquired, which is currently taken up by a sketch of B.

Light stares. And he starts laughing too. "Of course they are," he gasps when he finds he can speak. "This isn't fucking complicated enough, B, how the hell are we going to get out of this? Out of Japan? They're going to find us!" Light's trembling grows more acute as the feeling of being trapped, cornered, surrounded and having no fall back plan and no idea of what the future holds for him really hits him.

"No, Light," B corrects. "You weren't listening."

"Shut up!" Light snaps. He's had enough. "They all have that image, and there's no way in hell we're getting out of here undetected."

"You're still not listening," B snarls, and Light is thrown off, both by his sudden mood swing and by the fact that he swings the car around to the curb and throws it in park. "Go in there and change, right now," he orders, gesturing towards the gas station in front of them and looking so dangerous that Light's hand is already on the door's handle before B can finish his sentence. "Wash up in there too, you look like shit. I'll be waiting when you're finished."

Dazed, Light stares at him for a moment before, "Move!" B snaps.

Light moves.

* * *

There's a person in the mirror who looks like him, who moves like him, who stares wide-eyed back at him, but it's not him.

The eyes are all wrong. Weary, sharp, determined, hunted. Haunted. But not . . . how had L phrased it? Soulless. L hadn't thought Light had been listening. He had been.

Soulless. Empty. Blank. Inhuman. Those have been his eyes for years now.

And now . . . Now they are full and frightened and constantly moving but they are not even close to being empty. He stops splashing water on his face to look closer.

It _is_ him. It can be no one else.

Does this mean he's actually getting _better_ somehow?

Locked in the bathroom, half-dressed, Light laughs so hard he cries.

Because he guesses that several facts—including that he's lost track of time and lost track of what he's doing, not to mention that by the time B comes looking for him, he's shattered the mirror and is kneeling helplessly in the subsequent glass without ever feeling pain or realizing what he'd been doing—are his answer.

* * *

B stares. "I'm not cleaning that up," he says.

Light looks around himself and grimaces as he stands and the shards in his knees and ankles shift. "I know," he says.

"Come on, put on those clothes and let's go. We don't have time for this."

Light dresses, flinches when the glass gets stuck in the fabric, and gingerly limps after B. He never thought he'd think much about it, but he's actually getting tired of following these orders.

But it's not like he can think of anything else to do.

* * *

"Watari, can you find any police reports filed in the last hour concerning a stolen vehicle, possibly from a hospital area?" _If Light and B made it out of that hotel, at least one of them had their face covered. And since one of the firemen is among the casualties—and he didn't have his gear on—I think I know how they managed it._

"L, there's only one."

L shifts the phone to his other ear so he can turn on the radio to listen to the news. "Description and license plate, please," he says.

* * *

"Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"Are you?"  
"_Yes_."

"Really listening?"

"Yes, B, for the love of God!"

" . . . I'm not going to repeat myself, you know."

"Oh my God, B, just tell me. I am devoting absolutely as much brain power as I can to what great and noble truths you are about to unveil."

"Okay. We are now headed to the airport."

"But what about the police-"

"Shhh! Don't worry about the police."

"B, come on. Be serious."

"I am. The police have a sketch of myself and an order to arrest me on sight."

"I surmised as much, thank you. How the hell does that enable us to get out of Japan on a public flight?"

"It doesn't enable _us_, Light. But it certainly doesn't hinder _you_ unduly."

Light's mouth opens and closes. He opens it and tries again. "No," he manages, weakly.

"Yes."

"I . . . I _can't_, B."

"You don't really have a choice, Light."

* * *

"Did you see the guy in seat 13B?"

"Yeah, I did. Cute, but . . ."

"But he looks absolutely terrified, yeah."

"Think he's afraid of flying?"

"No doubt. He was gripping the armrest so hard I thought it'd shatter the plastic."

"Do you think he gets sick?"

"If he does, it's your turn to clean it up and help him out."

"He's seated in _your _section. I'm not cleaning up anything."

". . . Damn it."

* * *

Light has never enjoyed flying. He doesn't like the uncertainty and the level of trust he would have to place in technology and people he has no control over. He doesn't like the certainly of death should any small thing go wrong. And ever since the trial and his subsequent imprisonment, he doesn't like being trapped.

He wants his medication. Bad. His tremors are terrible, though thankfully some of it can be credited to the turbulence they're having. Once that ends, though, people are bound to notice if they haven't already.

His head is spinning and he feels absolutely ill. Mostly, he tries to keep his eyes closed because they spin and can't focus on anything when they're open. He focuses on breathing. But when he does that and manages to get it under control, his shaking gets worse. And vice versa.

Oh God, what if he has an episode here? What would they do? Everything is just moving so fast. He shivers harder, just thinking about it. Would they be able to figure it out? The light in the cabin is dim because it's a nighttime flight, but if they took him into the lighted flight attendant section, they'd be able to see his shaking and his scars and his dread. If anyone looks closely enough _now_ they'll see those things.

"I'm sorry, but are you all right?"

Light nearly jumps when he hears the soft voice, and he moves his head to look at his neighbor. The man seated next to him doesn't look concerned, exactly; his expression is more towards the curious side of things than anything else. But Light doesn't want to give him any reason to switch into a more malignant attitude.

"Yes," he manages, wincing when his voice comes out sort of strangled-sounding. He takes a deep breath and tries again. "Yes," he repeats, and this time it's a bit more acceptable. "Just . . . don't like flying; you understand."

"I suppose." The man leans back in his seat, shifting his gaze away from Light, who feels like he can breathe easier. "Where in the States are you headed?"

"Chicago," Light tells him before he can stop himself. He grits his teeth and tells his brain to fucking get in gear here; what's the guy going to think when he asks why and Light tells him that it's so he can pick up his Death Note and then destroy his former doctor from the mental institution in which he used to reside?

"Oh, I used to have some clients there." The conversation seems strained, but the other man hasn't run screaming or called one of the flight attendants to come drag him away yet, so Light is going to chalk this one up as a success. "It's not business, is it?"

"Oh, no," Light says. "Some relatives. It's a funeral." There, that's a good enough reason to get on a plane even if one's terrified of flying, right?

"I'm sorry," the other man says politely.

"It's all right," Light accepts his condolences, feeling amazed that the other guy's buying this.

The other man settles back more comfortably and pulls out a set of earplugs; presumably, he's decided that Light isn't a total psycho who's going to kill him or steal his stuff while he sleeps.

Ironic, since Light is not above doing either of those things. Luckily for this guy, though, neither of those actions would benefit him in any way.

He also settles back in his chair, deciding that maybe he'll be able to sleep too, and fairly pleased with the conversation he's just conducted. He lied, after all, and someone actually bought it. Never mind that this man had no reason to look for a lie or to mistrust or even care about what Light said. He can _lie _again.

He's exhausted at this point, since he has hardly slept at all with B around, and when his eyes start to slip shut, he lets them.

Mistake.

* * *

_There is nothing. He is nothing._

_ He is white walls and blank pieces of notebook paper. He is empty eyes and sallow skin. He is spectral winters of silent snow and dead trees and frosted breath. _

_ And everything is nothing. And everything is dead. Illusory. Shadows and more shadows and gray and dark. _

_ He is empty._

_He is silence._

_ Everything is gone. Everyone is dead. _

_ L . . . _

_ No . . . _

_ He wants to run, but he is nothing. There is no movement and there is no color and no friction. There is only the want, the _need_ to see him; he needs to see him, even if it's too late, even if he is already . . ._

_ But he can't be. This—he—is Light's world. Doesn't he know what it will do to Light if he's . . . _

_ Everyone else can be gone and dead. _

_ L has to stay. L has to be with him. He cannot do this. _

_ He panics. _

_ Oh please oh please oh please God no, don't let this be real, don't let him be gone, just let me see him one more time talk to him one more time . . . _

_ I can't even see him anymore I can't hear his voice I can't feel his touch please no please I didn't mean to, I need him, please don't let this be nothing . . ._

_ But it is. _

_ And he is._

_ Light is nothing, so he cannot sob or fall to his knees or scream or run. _

_ But he can break._

_ And he does. _

* * *

"Sir? Sir!"

Light's eyes snap open and immediately he feels the pain blossom from both sides of his jaw. His teeth ache and he tries to grind them again to keep back the exclamation of pain but that just makes it worse.

He looks up and sees one of the flight attendants standing over him. "I'm sorry," he manages to mumble. "Is there a problem?" Surreptitiously, he glances around the cabin. There are a few curious eyes directed at him (and certainly the man sitting next to him looks mildly alarmed), but by and large people are ignoring him, so at least he can't have been screaming.

"You seemed to be having a nightmare. You were tossing and turning and . . . yes. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm very sorry," Light says, attempting a smile. "I really don't do well with airplanes." Oh God, he cannot keep this up; he is going to hyperventilate, he is going to pass out, to scream, to cry to shake and shudder until he's in pieces. He needs something to drink, he needs his pills, he needs _L_. Abruptly, he stands. "Excuse me," he says, and makes his way to the tiny lavatory.

He does not kneel—his knees still ache from the glass earlier—but he sits on the floor, for once not caring one bit about what's on it, wraps his arms around himself and trembles like a child. He doesn't think anyone can hear him over the noise of the plane, but just in case they can, he buries his face in his arms while he sobs.

* * *

Hours later—maybe, Light has no real way of telling—he wearily gets up when he sees the 'fasten seatbelt' sign come on and the pilot's voice telling him that they will be landing in Chicago in about half an hour. He checks himself in the mirror, decides that he looks like hell but he doesn't care, and makes his way back to his seat.

His neighbor gives him a wary look, but says nothing; Light is grateful, though he'd never say it aloud. When the flight attendant tells him to buckle up, he does.

The plane touches down.

* * *

Thousands of miles away, Beyond Birthday stares at L Lawliet and just _howls_ as he laughs until he's blind and gasping for air.

* * *

A/N: YAY NEXT CHAPTER. Seriously, I may be absolutely as excited as you are. You're welcome, by the way, for the plot. I spent hours on this baby. I hope you like her now that you're seeing more of her. Say hello, plot.

Plot: Hi. *mumble mumble it'saboutfuckingtime mumble mumble*

Anyways. College is great fun and that's about all I have to say about anything anymore. OH! Also, I have to say thank you thank you for last chapter's reviews! I didn't even have to threaten mammals or anything! You guys rock, seriously. I don't think you even know.

Also, in light of this chapter, I'm going to ask something I've been dying to know: do you think this'll be a happy ending? I mean, I've already made up my mind, but since I've been over the plot in my mind maybe a few hundred times, all this seems dreadfully predictable to me. So I always love to hear what people think is going down with my plot. If you get it right . . . well, I won't tell you because it will spoil everything. But I will congratulate you soundly at the end of all things (LOTR reference FTW!), which should be in another 4-5 chapters. Maybe more. We'll see what the characters are thinking.

So . . . lemme know what you thought/think! I love hearing it!


	11. Lost

**Part 11 - Lost**

**Posted 03.28.10

* * *

**

In the time that L and Light had been living together, L had rarely kept any secrets from him. He'd taken Matt's advice for the most part, and had tried to be open and honest for Light's sake. The secrets he _had_ kept had mostly been about either cases or about Whammy's orphanage; the former because he'd felt it was sensitive or triggering material, and the latter because he figured it really wasn't his secret to tell anyway.

One of the secrets he'd kept, of course, involved a certain Dr. Crowley and had resulted in Light absconding from their shared residence and off on some whirlwind adventure with the worst possible person L could think of.

A few of the secrets had been from much earlier in their existence together—back when Light was still trying medications, still struggling to stay in touch with reality. He'd figured that showing Light pictures of tortured victims in rape and assault cases was probably not a great idea.

Another secret was an accident—L had just never gotten around to discussing his past and childhood with Light. He'd _wanted _to, he'd certainly thought about it, but it had just . . . never come up. Yet another: the horrible failures of Whammy's first round of children. L had never discussed that with anyone, not even Whammy, and he didn't think that he ever would.

Another, the fact that L was still, from time to time, in contact with Chief Yagami (not that the older man _knew _that Light had escaped—good God, no, L wasn't _stupid_).

And one secret . . .

One secret, L is staring at right now. His heart beats a little faster, he feels his palms start to sweat. He has had nightmares about this secret. With effort, he closes the file on his laptop and moves to the window so he doesn't have to look at it anymore.

"No," he whispers. He can't. He rests his head on the cool glass and closes his eyes. "No," he says again, reinforcing his decision.

There is a knock at his door. L's head jerks up and his mask falls smoothly into place with barely a hitch or a click. "Enter," he says.

It's Aizawa. L saw no reason not to involve the men he'd worked with personally in his search for B (well, except for the little detail that B was most likely with _Light_). But he needed to be at the police station personally and even with Kira's reign over, L still did not like introducing himself to new people unless it absolutely could not be avoided.

"L?"

"It's Ryuuzaki, still, Aizawa-san," L reminds him.

Aizawa bows slightly. "Ryuuzaki," he amends, "we've got him."

L's eyebrows raise a little. "You're certain?"

"He matches the picture and sketches we have," Aizawa tells him. "He's in holding cell 5 right now."

"You have officers watching him?" L wishes that it didn't have to be a question; he wishes that they just knew enough not to let B be on his own.

But Aizawa nods. "Yes, just on the other side of the mirror." He pauses, then frowns. "He knows, somehow, that you're here. He keeps calling himself 'your worser half' and demanding to speak to you."

"Yes, well, B is a little terror, isn't he?"

"He's scared off our whole junior squad. They caught him . . . eating . . ."  
"Someone, or something?"

"Someone."

"Ah, yes. That sounds just like him."

"It was the police officer that originally found him. He was one of our seasoned officers. Twenty years here."

"I'm sorry," L says.

Aizawa glances at him quickly. "Ryuuzaki, he . . . this guy didn't even have a weapon. How the hell did he kill an armed cop?"

"I am not certain how I'm supposed to know that, as I have not been privy to any pictures or descriptions of the scene."

"I mean, how did he overpower him?"

"He is the devil incarnate," L says in all seriousness. "He is resourceful, deceitful, depraved, and completely without conscience or respect for human life. And he likes a challenge."

"You're telling me that he really did kill this cop with his bare hands?" Aizawa asks.

"Aizawa-san, don't you think you'd be a little startled if someone with gleaming red eyes leapt out at you from behind a building and tried to tear your jugular out _with their teeth_?" L asks.

Aizawa grimaces slightly. He's guiding L down the turns of the police station now, leading him to the basement and the holding cells. "How do you know this guy, Ryuuzaki?" he finally asks.

"He's an escaped prisoner. One I put away many years ago, when I had not learned yet to hide my face from the criminals I hunted," L says bluntly. "He is also clinically insane, so please do not put much stock in what he says."

Aizawa shrugs. He never really listens to criminals anyway. He pauses for a long moment, then glances sideways at L. L can sense, like some sort of psychic ability, that awkward conversation is coming. L desperately wishes that B's cell wasn't so far away.

"Ryuuzaki, I- how have you been?" Aizawa asks, seeming to change his mind halfway through the sentence.

L shrugs a little. "My life remains more or less unchanged from when we last saw one another." He pauses too, remember the little he knows about polite conversation. "How are you? And your family? Your girls must be getting older."

Aizawa smiles fondly, and L feels a sting of . . . jealousy? The older man is so obviously content with his family. His normal, happy, status quo family that doesn't abandon him or have nervous breakdowns every few weeks.

"Yes, they are," he answers. "Our oldest is almost ready to take the high school entrance exams."

"That sounds challenging," L says. "You must be very proud."

"We are." L isn't looking at him, but he can hear the smile in his tone. "And . . . how's Watari?" Aizawa counters, and L is slightly amazed. He's actually carrying on a polite conversation.

"He's well, thank you."

"He doesn't still handle your contacts, does he?" Aizawa asks.

"No, I wouldn't think to ask Watari to do that at his age. I handle them myself, mostly," L answers.

Aizawa stops in front of a nondescript door. "Well," he says, "he's being held in here."

"It is soundproof?" L asks.

Aizawa nods, then hesitates. More awkward conversation, perhaps? L thought they were done with niceties.

"Ryuuzaki . . . do you know—I mean, you haven't . . . you don't keep in touch with him, do you?"

"Who?" L knows who.

Aizawa takes a deep breath. "Light," he says on the exhale.

The lines around L's eyes tighten slightly. He can tell that Aizawa notices by how he shifts his stance into something more submissive. L does his best to smooth out the wrinkles in his mask. "No, I don't," he says. The words burn his tongue. "I get monthly reports from the asylum, however. Did Chief Yagami ask you to inquire after his son?"

Aizawa looks surprised. He shouldn't; he should be used to how L twists conversations around to distract and pretend. "Oh, no," he says. "I wouldn't tell him . . . anything like this. Just . . . curiosity, you know? We all got pretty close during the Kira case."

"Light never let anyone get close," L says flatly.

"Oh. Well, yeah. I guess it just seemed like that. Is he . . . okay?"

"As well as any mass murderer living out his days in an insane asylum, I'd imagine," L says sharply, coldly.

Aizawa looks away. L feels almost sorry for him. Aizawa—well, no one on the Task Force ever felt wholly satisfied with the conclusion of the case. The evidence was sound and there was Light's testimony, of course, but still . . .

Light had always been such a _good boy._

Sometimes it made L sick.

"I'm sorry to cut this short, Aizawa-san, but I really must speak with B."

Aizawa frowns slightly at L's chilly response, but after a moment he nods, all business again. "Of course," he says.

"Thank you. Please tell your men to turn off any recording information and vacate the surveillance room. I need to speak with him privately."

Aizawa seems a little surprised at the unusual request, then seems to remember that he's talking to L, which pretty much explains everything. "I'll tell them," he says. "Just use the button on the wall to call when you want the officers to go back to watching him."

"Thank you, Aizawa-san," L says, letting a little of his humanity filter into his voice. He is anxious beyond belief to talk to B, but he has come to realize the incredible value of relationships and loyalty in the past few years, and he doesn't want to alienate this man.

Aizawa bows again and then goes to clear out the officers.

L waits a full 60 seconds until they're all gone, then takes a deep breath and enters.

* * *

Chicago is fucking _cold_.

This is Light's entire thought process as he staggers out of the airport. It starts and ends with that little sentence.

It is winter here, like everywhere else in the hemispheres Light has been recently inhabiting, but this is not cold like anything Light has ever felt. Japan and England have got _nothing _on the humidity and wind chill of this God-awful place. He takes a deep, bracing breath, and coughs as it freezes in his lungs. Why would _anyone_ live here? Ever?

Perhaps a large part of the reason why Light is so miserable could be because the most protection he has is the jacket he's been using.

At least his shivering will look like it's from the cold and not some mental breakdown.

As he puts some distance between himself and the cameras at the airport, he reaches into his pocket—he's still got a few dollars from B.

He walks. He knows enough—he's been on the run long enough—to know the dangers of being in an area with so many law enforcement personnel and security cameras. The airport, government areas, and any place that is either wealthy or high-profile are bad for him.

So Light walks. He doesn't think for a long time, just hums a little off-key. It's nice, the not=thinking. He doesn't get to do that very often. It crosses his mind—fleetingly—more than once that this will be the calm before the storm. That his mind, brilliant as it is, cannot keep silent at this rate.

But, for now, he rather likes the sound of silence.

* * *

The holding cell is by no means an anechoic chamber; hence, the sound of L's hand hitting B's face reverberates in the little room.

B giggles, even as he blinks back the surprise that had taken over his expression when L had first struck him. His head had snapped back from the force of the blow, but now he rotates it so he can stare at L with gleaming red eyes.

He's still tied to the chair, as he had been when L had entered the room—L isn't stupid, he knows that with no recording of this, plus no backup watching, if B were to overpower him, then there would be no one to help. So B gets to stay trussed up while L beats the shit of out him.

Hey, L never said he played fair.

"B, I really don't give a fuck about what happens to you, so for all I care, you can go free. But only _after_ you tell me where Light is," L snarls, hands clenching. He has been at this for a full forty minutes and so far—nothing.

"I don't want to talk to you as long as you keep me tied up," B tells him for maybe the tenth time.s

"And I don't want to have to kill you in the middle of a police station. I do not compromise with murderers, B," L snaps back.

"Just untie my hands," B bargains. "Untie them, and I'll talk to you."

"Will you tell me what I want to know?" L demands. He can't take this, he feels like he's half crazy already, and consorting with B is only making things a thousand times worse. (_And something could be wrong with Light, something could be terribly wrong right now, Light could be hurting or lost or . . ._)

"Oh L," B sighs, his expression taking on a mock-sympathetic spin. "I'm sure you must be so worried about Light . . . after all, what if I've tied him up and left him someplace? Or left him to bleed in the middle of nowhere? Or sent him on a plane to Argentina with no money and no connections? There are just so many many things that could go wrong for someone as . . . fragile as Light."

L's jaw clenches as he makes a quick decision, and he reaches down and unlocks the handcuffs, tucking them into his back pocket. "Talk," he says woodenly. "Where is he?"

"You seem so concerned," B murmurs. He reaches up and trails light fingers over L's cheek and L jerks back. "I wish I could help you . . ."

L calmly inserts his foot underneath the chair and flips B over onto his back. B is left gasping for air as he has the wind knocked out of him.

"You can help me," L says pleasantly. "And you can do it before or after a world of hurt. If I weren't on such a strict schedule, I'd actually prefer after. But it's your choice, in the end."

B coughs and works on speaking. "Come here," he manages to say. "I just want to touch you . . . I haven't seen you in so long."

L clenches his teeth. "Goddammit, B, focus," he orders. "Where is Light?"

"I mean, I've been waiting and planning to see you for so long. I really missed you, L."

"I know you know where he is, B!"

"Why can't we just talk, Lawliet?"

L sucks in a breath of air. "Don't call me that," he hisses.

"Lawliet, Lawliet, Lawliet," B singsongs, and the tune is similar to something Light used to hum. L turns away in disgust and horrified fear. If he can't get B to talk . . .

No, he will. There is a way. There has to be something that B wants more than keeping Light concealed.

L walks over to where B still lays on the ground and stands over him. "B." He speaks calmly. "B, you know that wherever Light is, it's not like he's going anywhere. He can't take care of himself, and all I want is to have him back. Now _where is he _?"

B's face splits into a wide, manic grin. "I don't think you give him enough credit, L," he says. "After all," he adds, the grin turning prurient and feral, "you don't _know_ him like I do."

That is _it_. L kicks B's ribs, viciously, and because he's actually wearing shoes, he hears a few ribs crack. It feels pretty good, so he does it again. And again to the other side, and the he plants his foot on B's neck and bends over.

"Listen to me, you little piece of shit," L snarls. "You don't mean anything to me. You are the same as any other criminal, and I wouldn't be paying even the slightest bit of attention to your little blips of criminal activity if it weren't for Light."

"Wouldn't that," B gasps out, fingers scrabbling at his neck, trying to get more air through the passageways in his throat, "wouldn't that be _more _of an incentive for me to keep where he is a secret?"

"Unless you wanted to live, yes," L agrees, pressing down harder.

"If you kill me, you'll never find him."

A compelling argument. L moves his foot and then rights B's chair. He sits down in the chair across from B, relishing the blue-black marks blossoming on his face and throat and how B winces slightly every time his inhaling disturbs his broken ribs.

"Okay," L says calmly. "Okay, B. You're right. You have the only information that I care about. And I don't know what you want for it."

B laughs, but the sound is weak because he can't get enough air behind it.

"What do you want?" L prompts.

"You," B says immediately, and L recoils slightly. "I want you to see me, and watch me, and pay attention," B continues. His voice slowly picks up strength and speed as he speaks. "I want to see every expression you are capable of making and know that I'm the one causing them. I want to hear what you have to say when I tell you what Light looks like when he breaks completely, and I want to taste despair on your skin when you hear what I've done to him. I want everything you are capable of giving me. And I want to take everything you're not. I want to _kill you_ and watch as life and will drain from you until you are nothing more than I am—a shell with nothing left to keep you company but dark memories and destruction."

Silence.

"I want you dead," B whispers, more to himself than to L, "I want you dead and I want you living forever and mostly, I want you _mine_. Mine mine mine mine mine."

"Where _is _he, B?" L asks, not caring if desperation is present in his voice. It's not like it can hurt the situation any. "Please," he adds as sort of a last-ditch attempt.

B's eyes snap back to reality and look back up at L. "You're so upset," he whispers. "It's really wonderful."

"B."

"Light is a fascinating creature, did you know that?" B asks. L says nothing because hey, at least B is talking about Light. It's an improvement. "He's very beautiful, especially when he's broken." B's fingers find his teeth and he begins nipping at them. "He misses you—but at least he had me, right?"

L turns away. He can't take this, he doesn't want to hear this.

"I was nice to him," B adds. "I was very nice to him, L. I gave him what he wanted."

"And what, exactly, was that?" L snaps, unable to keep quiet any longer.

"You," B says simply. "Everyone wants you; have you ever wondered why that is? It's because you are wholly inaccessible, L Lawliet. Everything you do is a closed book, and the most intelligent, curious people—people like me and Light—all we want to do is crack you open and see what's inside because you won't show us."

"Where is he, B?" L's had it with this. He is getting nowhere, and Light could be _dying _somewhere.

"It's only when you get like this that I can see you, truly," B continues as if L had not spoken. "You're a selfish, cheating, violent, mad excuse for a human being, and the only reason they've let you run things so far is because you're on their side and you don't make mistakes. But you do make them—you're making one _right now_ and it's going to cost you. _I'm_ going to cost you."

"Cost me what?" L asks, barely daring to breathe. His mind can't make sense of all this, he can't think about it right now or he'll go insane.

B smiles at him, and the expression is horrifyingly, sickeningly sweet. His hand flinches as he tears clean through the skin and more blood starts to flow, to drip down his chin and his hand and collect in his lap.

"_Everything_," he whispers.

* * *

Light needs food. He is hungry, and he needs food. He needs a coat, also. He's cold and he needs something to keep him warm.

He needs a place to stay. Night is falling and so he needs somewhere to rest.

He knows all of this. The logic is clear enough even in his twisted mind. But nothing is coming. No solution is anywhere in him.

He has been walking for hours, and his legs are very tired and his fingers are very frostbitten and his mind is reeling and he's seeing everything double and in inside-out colors. People are blurring together. It seems much colder and also very hot. He feels like discarding the sweatshirt he has, but keeps it on simply because it would take too much energy to remove it.

His footsteps slow and then gradually, they stop altogether. He is shivering and he stares at the ground at his feet.

Where he hell is he again? And what the hell is he doing?

He takes another, uncertain, step, and then crumples. He doesn't even know where he is—he could be in the middle of the street and he wouldn't know—and he just crouches down on the ground and shivers and trembles and stares with too-wide open eyes and he knows.

He _can't. _He is nothing, he is lost, he is all kinds of cannots and do nots and will nots and he just _can't. _The anxiety, like a living thing, claws at his throat. His breaths feel like he has to fight for every one. The feeling climbs its way up and out until even his limbs are burning with the realization . . .

He _can't_. He's in an unfamiliar and unfriendly city where there is no one and everyone and he is a no one. He is nothing. They will never find him, like he had wanted, because he is completely . . . utterly . . . alone . . .

He _can't. _

_ He is alone. _

He doesn't remember what he is doing here. He doesn't remember why he is cold and scared except that he is, and that there is no one to take care of him.

There has never been so much aloneness before. Only in the holding cell during Kira's trial . . . and he can barely even remember that. But even then, always . . . always there was someone. He was not always ever alone, always there was someone who knew his name, who was charged with taking care of him or helping him take care of himself. For all his life, and now . . .

He is confused about so many many things, but there is at least one thing he does know, and it is that he does not know how to be alone.

But he is.

Also, there is one other thing that he knows, that he has just now realized.

_He is going to die. _

And isn't that just what he's always wanted?

* * *

It has been a full 48 hours since L first interrogated B. 24 hours, and L has gone to the cell no less than 5 times to get information out of B. He has tried every single technique available to him at this time. And nothing is fucking working.

The only thing L has left is his most tried-and-true method: waiting. L has more patience than anyone he's ever known. Yes, he hates waiting, and yes, he generally needs sugar while he's doing it, but when Light Yagami and Misa Amane were imprisoned for months and he was getting nowhere, he wasn't really all that concerned. If the Task Force thought they looked bad after 50 or so days of confinement, they should have seen what some of L's other prisoners looked like after a full year.

But.

This is irrelevant because L doesn't _have _a year. If Light is tied up somewhere, he doesn't even have another 24 hours before Light could be dead.

He needs his information _now._

And he knows how to get it.

* * *

Matt is playing Medal of Honor and kicking the crap out of Mello's avatar when his phone rings. He answers it and Mello proceeds to take out his frustrations on Matt's avatar, which promptly dies a violent and grotesque death.

"Hi, L," he says. Mello rolls his eyes and heads to kitchen, presumably to hunt down the chocolate he hasn't managed to utterly destroy.

"Matt." L's voice is strained and soft.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Matt, I know that you have already done a great deal to help me with this investigation, but there is one more thing I think you may be able to help me with. Are you well enough to try something for me?"

Matt feels the bottom drop out of his stomach as he recognizes the tone in L's voice—it is despair. "The doctor says I'm pretty much recovered," he says. "What do you need?"

L takes a deep breath. "It would be complicated," he starts, "but I need you to write a computer program for me. It would need to go through all the video feed from things like CCTV, other security cameras, and even things like YouTube videos. Anything published, anything accessible to you."

"What am I looking for? And how big a range?" Matt asks.

"Starting three days ago and then running consistently every few minutes," L explains. "We're looking for Light. Any image of him. Anything that might match up."

"You need a program that will go through thousands of hours of video footage with files stored in a bunch of different formats, all looking for a glimpse of Light?" Matt clarifies.

"Can you do that?" L asks.

"Well, yeah, but L, it will take a ton of equipment." Matt is thinking now, the wheels in his brain spinning faster than they have in a long time. "If you want it sensitive enough to pick up profile shots but dependable enough not to decide that everyone it sees is Light . . . and something that can go through the files instantaneously, without me having to look over and approve matches . . . L, it would take an all-new computer. Maybe even a supercomputer. I'd have to build it from scratch, and the program too."

"Can you do it?" L repeats, his voice riding the fine line between hope and desperation. Matt does not want to be the one who pushes L—indomitable L, The World's Greatest Detective L, L who never breaks, never cries—off of that knife's edge.

"Yes, L," Matt decides. "I'll need access to funds."

"You know how to get into my accounts," L says. "Use whatever you need."

"I could have it done in 72 hours, counting the time it'll take to get the parts," Matt promises. He's 95% sure he can actually do it in that time. If he doesn't sleep. Or eat. Or breathe.

"Thank you," L says fervently. "And Matt? One more thing before you do that?"

"What is it?"

"Can you access the NPA mainframe from where you are? And change a few points of information around?"

"Yeah, that's no problem," Matt tells him. "What do you need?"

"I just need a few names changed and some assignments switched around."

"Just tell me what you need. I've got this, L. It won't give me any trouble."

L sighs, and he doesn't care that Matt can hear the relief in his voice when he says, "Thank you, Matt. Truly."

And then they get to work.

* * *

It doesn't take long for L to explain what he wants to Matt. He thinks that Matt probably can understand from his instructions what his overarching plan is, but—thank God for Matt—he doesn't say a word.

Whammy, on the other hand, is staring at L when he hangs up.

"L," he says slowly, "why are you doing this?"

L is silent for a moment, then sits down and draws his knees up to his chest. "It occurs to me," he says to the plate of cookies in front of him, "that I have not been putting as much effort into finding Light as I could be."

"But moving B and switching the NPA's schedule—"

"Will probably not be fatal to anyone we know," L interrupts.

"Probably not be fatal?" Whammy repeats. "To anyone you know? L, since when is knowingly putting policemen you don't know in any kind of danger an acceptable risk to take?"

L bites into a cookie. It tastes like the ash of the burning hotel. He chews and swallows and keeps eating. "The stakes have never been higher in any case I've had," he tells Whammy. "I've never had more at risk; it follows logically, therefore, that I should also be willing to risk more to solve this than I ever have before."

"L, if what I think you're planning actually comes to pass, then it could destroy your reputation. If anyone found out, you'd never get another case in Japan."

"No one will find out," L says calmly. "Matt will be very careful."

"But what if they do?" Whammy presses.

L's eyes are wide and blank and his expression—or the lack thereof—almost makes Whammy shiver. "Then it will destroy my reputation," he agrees. "Then I will never get another case in Japan. If it means getting Light back, Whammy, then _I do not care_."

"L, is getting him back worth destroying yourself?" Whammy is getting ready to start a lecture, but he isn't counting on L's answer, which is:

"Yes." Simple, immovable. _Yes_.

_Light is worth everything and anything, _L is saying. _Light is worth any risk and anyone. _

"What will you do if you get him back and he is damaged beyond repair?" Whammy asks.

"Then I will do whatever is in my power to fix anything that can be attended to," L answers. His voice is like steel. "And I will beg his forgiveness and hope to God he hears me."

"L, you can't let this case destroy you. What if you are ruined by what happens in the next 24 hours? What if someone _dies_?"

L finally looks Whammy in the eyes. "Then Light and I will finally be even," he says. In the silence that follows, they can both hear the faint buzzing of the monitors and the rush of traffic outside the hotel. The quiet stretches out for a very long time, and L starts to feel sort of light-headed as he tries to figure out all the variables in this impossible equation.

Finally, L's phone rings, and when he answers it, it is Matt, telling him that the NPA has been successfully hacked. L ignores Whammy's disapproving look and turns on his computers. The security footage from the building where B is being kept comes up.

"And the actual security cameras in the building are being fed a loop, are they not?" L asks.

"Yep," Matt says. He hesitates. "L, you're sure you want to do this, right? What if someone gets hurt?"

"It will be fine, Matt," L assures him. "I'm sure."

Matt does not ask anymore questions. "Okay," he says. "I'm going to get started on that program, okay? Do you need anything else?"

"If I do, I will call you," L says. "Thank you, Matt."

"No prob," Matt says, and hangs up.

"L . . ." Whammy begins, and then sighs. "I cannot pretend to support what you are doing, but I will not interfere."

As he makes to leave, L catches his wrist. "I have to find him, Whammy," L says, and when Whammy looks at him closely, he can see the ache and tiredness around his eyes. L lowers his voice. "I do not want to do this, but B will not talk. And I need to find Light. I _have _to. Whammy . . . he could be hurt, or afraid or lost somewhere. Or worse." He's whispering at this point, willing Whammy to understand.

Whammy sighs again. "I know, L," he says. "But wouldn't it just be easier to figure out what his plan is? What B is manipulating, and what he's counting on happening?"

"I haven't the time," L says softly. "I don't know exactly what B's planning, and I'm going crazy worrying about Light. I need to find him as soon as I possibly can. And that means taking some risks."

"You love him," Whammy says.

"Yes," L agrees.

"You will do whatever you have to to fix him once you get him back?"

"Yes."

Whammy nods. "Then do what you need to."

L gives him a hesitant, very small smile. "Okay," he says. For a moment after Whammy leaves, L puts his head in his hands, and then he straightens. He turns his attention to the screen in front of him and watches as the guards in front of B's cell switch out and B discovers that the handcuffs binding his hands behind his back have a weak spot in the chain.

_Let the games begin, B_, he thinks wryly. For the first time since all this started, L is _ready_.

* * *

A/N: I can just imagine the screams--probably equally divided amongst those who are excited about an update (finally!) and those who are being driven mad by the cliffhanger. Sorry about that, by the way.

So anyways, now we've got Light all set to curl up and die, L ready to kick B's trash (and anyone else who gets in his way), B with unknown motivation and planning, and the rest of our characters hopelessly tangled up in all of their problems! Isn't this just looking so great??

Yeah, okay, I know. It sucks. Buuuut it's an update. And the next chapter . . . well, let's just say we get even MORE plot, and a hell of a lot more Light, if that's the sort of thing you're interested in.

You will be reviewing now, yes?


	12. Pause

**Part 12 - Pause**

**Posted 06.30.2010**

**

* * *

**

He remembers.

Light remembers things like the lace on the old white blanket he kept in his room and under his pillow until he turned seven-years-old. Remembers gentle lips on the side of his warm face when he laid sick or injured as a little boy. He remembers not being able to reach the countertop and standing and facing it with determination, knowing that _someday_, _sometime _he'd be able to reach anything he wanted to. That one day there would be no limitations for him—that things like height and strength and understanding and control would be his, just as easily as childhood and innocence were his now.

He remembers summer days that were so full of colors—and it makes him cry now, to think of the colors that smelled so sharp and fresh and the hot breeze that did very little to cool him off and a great deal to tousle his hair and muss his clothing. He remembers texture and warmth of vedant grass and peeling white bark and crisp pages of sharp books and his sweet sisters happy cheeks and mindless laughter when he would tickler her.

They are crisp apple memories of mothers and fathers and family and _belonging_, even if he was so different that he frightened them sometimes. They are silver cool memories like mercury in a thermometer, shifting and sliding and perfect even as they changed every time he managed to glimpse them out of the corner of cold, colorles eyes.

And he remembers cool air rushing in in the fall, ushering in another school year, ushering in boredom and acting (and _learning, _and happiness and new things and perfect things and he'd never seen, _why had he never seen?)_. And he remembers how _bored _he'd been and how he'd thought it absolute torture, and how bored he'd slowly become with everything, how everything came so so easy and he thought he'd go absolutely mad if everything became viscous and immovable, if nothing changed and he became stagnant like the rest of them.

He remembers how much he'd thought it would hurt, to be normal, to be slow and stupidly content and happy to move with the flow. He remembers how much he'd wanted power—power to change, power to mold.

And he'd gotten his wish.

And he thinks how, even though he can't remember, how he must have thought the Death Note such a _gift, _such a great and grand weapon that was just for him because he was just so fucking special . . .

He remembers.

He remembers, but not enough. It is not enough. For Light Yagami, it is never enough. It has never _been _enough. He could have everything he'd ever needed, and still he demanded more, took more, regardless of who it hurt or what parts of himself he destroyed in the process. His need to _know_, to urge, to control, took him over and ran him down into exhaustion and madness and still, _still_ he has not changed.

Because it was not enough. L hadn't been enough. Life without memories, no matter how hideous those memories were, hadn't been enough for him.

But _oh_, he thinks, words soft like white lace childhood blankets and snow falling, _oh, it would be enough now. _

He sinks and remembers and sighs and thinks and feels the alien beat of an alien city that cares not at all for him or his turmoil and instead moves on without him, moves on with its millions of lives and forgets that Light Yagami might have existed.

_Now, _he thinks_, if only Light Yagami could forget that he might have existed. _

And that's the only thing—Light Yagami cannot forget. And he thinks it ironic, in the part of his mind that is still present and up-to-date with all the happenings and goings-on in his life, that he should try so hard to forget even as he has traveled all these miles just ot remember.

And it makes him wonder, with thoughts that are effevescent and nebulous as clouds, as cotton candy and black oblivion hair, what he's _really _looking for out here.

Because as surely as he is cold and as surely as he is frightened and alone—he does not know. He guesses—just a guess, that's all anything ever is anymore—he guesses that he wants it back. He wants the innocence and the stupid contentment and the

the peace. The peace and quiet that swept away the moment he saw the little black notebook fall in the courtyard in his school.

Light had wanted so much and now he feels like he wants so little. He has been playing at all or nothing—and never for a moment had he ever thought that he'd be left with _nothing_. But he has been, and now—now he just wants _something. _Something quiet, and calm, and at peace and slow-moving and gentle. Something like quiet kisses and soft smiles. Something like dark hair and smooth hands—like a casual embrace that means everything and nothing, like dark eyes turned up at the corners and pale skin that feels warm and cool all at once.

He just wants . . . he just wants _something_. He sighs and shivers and after a moment, he lets his tired mind rest.

* * *

He's cold and he thinks that it's awfully inconsiderate of them all not to give him a fucking blanket or at least turn up the heat in this prison.

_So close_. He had been _so _close. L had been right there, near enough to touch, he _had _touched him.

His fingers tremble from the memory and he forces them to keep working at the chain. One of the links, he can feel it, it's weak and the metal is old. He strains his wrists further apart, grimacing a little as the metal catches on the scars on his wrists and slices through. Blood runs red-hot down his fingertips and he grits his teeth.

His little show is all well and good, but when it's dark like this, with no one watching him except maybe through infrared cameras, he has no reason to continue it.

B learned a long time ago that if you _act _crazy, everyone seems to underestimate you. And hell, maybe he _is _crazy, but that's not really his problem, now is it?

"_Is it_?" he whispers into the black room. His words echo back a little and he shivers. If everyone else thinks he's crazy and they have a problem with his behavior, then it's their problem, because B is fine, just fine, fine thanks very much.

The muscles in his shoulders are starting to burn in earnest now as he tries to pull the chain apart by force, and he gasps a little as the exertion starts to take a toll on his thin body. He hasn't eaten for a while. At least . . . not regular food.

He giggles when he thinks of that, of that stunned expression on the cop's face when he'd suddenly found himself on the cold cement instead of stalking his prey through an alleyway. B thinks of how _good _it felt to finally dig his fingers into warm flesh and get it all over him, on his hands, under his fingernails, in his hair and on his teeth.

People like _Light _and _L_, they were so precious, so adorable when it came to their little control complexes. They tried to control people who could still, at any moment, choose to turn and walk away from the situation, or could shut down and decide not to play. Because in the end, people are absolutely in control of themselves while they are living, and trying to force things to go their way made people like Light and L a little . . .

"_Crazy_," B whispers. His mouth stretches into a wide grin and he shivers and giggles a little.

People could just stop playing while they were still living. B forced them to play. He didn't let them get out of the game. There was something to be said, of course, of playing with people while they were still alive, of playing them like a finely tuned, tightly wound and temperamental instrument. That's what he was doing right now, after all.

And it was working _beautifully_.

B laughs again, a sharp bark of humor as his face splits into another wide grin. Oh God, it was so much fun, he hasn't had this much fun in so long, it was making _him_ a little crazy.

And then there was Light, whom B had been trying so _hard_ not to kill. It was difficult to destroy someone from the inside out. It wasn't B's style, unless it was about L. And that was only because he _couldn't_ kill L, because then what was left for him?

And speaking of L . . .

Oh, B had been so close today . . .

"So close," he murmurs, breath catching as he pulls harder against the handcuffs and his blood begins to flow faster. "So close, L, I was so close. And he just walks away, he just stays for awhile and then just walks away. And this is why, L, it's why you'd be so much better dead, you know it, don't you?"

B pauses, head cocked to the side as he listens. Then he nods. "He knows," he agrees. "He knows he'd be better dead because then he couldn't just stop trying, stop playing, change games, change strategies. He'd have to play with me if he were dead. Dead dead dead it's so final, isn't it L? Death just sort of changes everything, and you've seen someone die, haven't you? I have, lots.

"People are all equal in death. And it's sort of beautiful, because everyone and everything is so chaotic and unequal in life. In death there is justice and mercy and everything in between. In death people revert to their default setting—altruist, coward, you name it, L. No one has to worry about anything anymore. I'm doing them a _favor, _L Lawliet. I'm _helping." _

B starts laughing in earnest then, laughing so hard he's choking, first because he's not even sure that he believes what he's saying and second because the handcuffs . . .

They're gone.

B smiles. He _smiles_ and he walks to his cell door.

* * *

It is nearing three a.m., and L is surprised to find that he's actually getting sleepy. He has not slept since England, and even with the single most important case of his life so far hanging in the balance, L is finding that his head is nodding and his eyelids are heavy. Insomnia is not a gentle master, and when L crashes, he is gone. He shakes his head to clear it and then starts eating another one of the blueberry muffins that have been keeping him company during his late-night vigil. The sugar helps, as usual, but it has been so many days, so many _exhausting_ days, full of furious disappointments and emotions of the most desperate sort. He knows that Whammy can see the exhaustion evident in his concentrated face, but Whammy is asleep now, and there is no one to force him to bed.

God, he is so _tired. _

Trying to push the feeling away, L focuses on the screen in front of him. He can see in the cameras that B has managed to work the cuffs apart, and he is now listening at the door—probably for the guards to walk away or for the shift to change. Any criminal knows that the night guards are usually trained less and are less likely to be completely awake than the daytime ones.

L checks the clock again. 2:55 a.m. Shift changes at three and then lasts until 7. If B escapes right when the guards swap, then he'll have a four-hour head start on the police. And since L has removed his image and alert from the national security database, B should be able to get on a plane easily enough. _This is going to work._ The police will think that he'll still be in Japan, in the city, trying to hide his face. They'll only look here.

That's the plan anyway.

B's head tilts up and he examines the door carefully. It's very very close to three now, and L assumes that what B is hearing is the soft padding of footsteps. In the almost non-existent light of the cell, L has been able to see B talking to himself, but it is too dim to really see what he's saying. L's managed to make out his name once or twice, but he's not surprised at all about the realization.

L sees B stand stealthily and move over to the door. He holds his breath as B tries the door's handle—unlocked, Matt saw to that—and he exhales sharply as B grabs both guards and drags them backwards into the dimly lit room with him, slamming the door and turning on them with a snarl and a flash of his manic, crimson eyes.

L shuts his own eyes and flips open his cell phone. _This is going to work. _He dials a number, waits.

B is finishing with the two Japanese guards as L's eyes find the screen again. It is not his finest work, nor his most elaborate. There is some blood, and both guards are unconscious, but L can see the slight rise and fall of their chests, and some of the pressure and pain in his own chest fades. At least he will not be responsible for their deaths.

Alive or not, though, these men are hardly relevant. Like B, all L really cares about is that they are out of the way. L's eyes scan the screen and reach the door just in time to see B's shadow slip out like a specter into the brightly lit hallway.

L presses the talk button on his phone and _(this is going to work) _when his agent picks up, he says, "It's happened. Start trailing him."

* * *

The ground is rough and cold and smells the way old change does—like copper and blood, metallic and sticky sweet. Light presses his forehead into the cement and inhales again, feeling it scrape against his face as he struggles to breathe without feeling like his lungs are freezing over.

The ground is the only thing keeping him tethered here, he can feel it. The rough texture, the granules of sand and dirt and grime that stick to his hands and face and clothes, the smell of it and the reassuring weight of cold, unchanging pavement under his searching, trembling hands. His fingertips splay out on the ground, searching but not finding anything, so he draws them back inside his coat. It does not help.

He rolls onto his side and curls tighter, wondering what he's doing here. There's a faint almost-memory hovering at the edges of his sanity, but every time he gets close enough to touch it he flinches back because _damn_ it hurts.

There are flashes—of dark hair and crescendoing laughter, or of warm rooms and no air—that make him think that he doesn't especially _want _to remember.

But then there are other things—like soft and cool fingertips against his feverish skin and a soft clean scent like blue skies and distant hills, or the feeling of warm brick under his feet and sunlight on his eyelids—that keep him struggling to sort out his mind.

His hands clench and he shudders as his mind lights up like lightening and then goes very black again.

_I should get up_, he thinks hazily. _I should get up and . . . _

But that's just it. There is no reason, and the thought of moving and affecting and acting sounds so faraway and difficult that he just smiles a little, distantly, and lets his head sink back down to the cement below him.

There is relief coming, he can tell, and he lifts his hands up to his mouth, at first with the intention of warming them and then instead tearing to the tips which tingle and burn like they've never felt this sensation before.

Light knows he's done this before, though, and a dimly lit, nebulous memory surfaces. It's all texture and temperature—cold, steel, smooth metal and rough blankets. Handcuffs and a poorly heated room.

And . . . a doctor.

All his muscles tighten and he bites down deep enough that blood fills his mouth and the taste calms him, relaxes him like it's done in the past.

He hears echoes even as he tries to forget, things like screaming and _no no no please, _please_ don't, oh God please_

_And he is so alone and it is always so dark and cold and oh God where is he where is everyone, anyone? It's always so black and trembling and cloudy and he is just gone he wishes he was gone, dead_

_Dead _

Dead, _yes please let me die, let me sleep, just let me be away from everything, everyone_

_There has to be someone, please_

_Please_

_oh God please someone help me_

_L . . . _

Light screams, hands gripping his hair as memories break the surface like dragging a body through a swamp and it's muddy and he's gasping for breath and he's drowning and it _hurts._

_L, oh L, what was he thinking, what am I thinking where he is why isn't he here why am I here, what the hell am I doing I don't understand I can't understand please L, why aren't you here I need you_

_HateyoukillyouIwishIcould . . ._

_No, shh, no_

_I don't want you dead, I'm sorry I said that_

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," he whispers. "It's okay, I'm doing okay, I don't want to hurt you I'm just so _cold_, L and I don't know where you are. It's okay, I'm okay, I'll wait here."

L doesn't answer and he scrapes his hands against the ground below him, trying for more blood, more pain, more _sensation, dammit, because he's so numb he's so lost, he's so . . . _

_gone_

And he thinks, he tries to remember and light flashes around images of a black notebook and a smiling doctor but he just doesn't _care _anymore.

"L, why did you let me come here?" he mutters. "What the hell were you thinking what am I doing here anyway, I'm hungry and cold-"

_He barely knows what hungry and cold mean anymore_

"-and my skin hurts and my head aches and _why can't you fix it?"_

He screams the last and his voice gives out and he finds himself laughing, breathlessly and hopelessly, and he remembers . . .

"B," he breathes.

He trembles so hard at that that he can actually feel muscles tearing and his eyes roll back until he can't even see the gray of the cement or the gray of the sky or the black of the buildings or the alabaster white, it's so white, of his skin.

Because _it is his fault, _he has done all of this, not L, not B, not anyone and Light grips his hair again and tears-

_He _has done this, it is all him, he has left L and gone with B and destroyed his only friend, his only maybe-lover, and has destroyed himself. Oh God, but he does deserve it, doesn't he?

"Don't I?" he demands.

_Yes,_ he thinks, the word echoing and filling up the spaces and cracks in his mind _yes yes yes yes I do, it's better, so much better if I'm gone and-_

_I'll be nothing and_

_it just sounds so _nice_, nothing does_

_I don't have to think or try or hurt and I can just be done with this _

_haven't I done enough, I've had to try so hard everything is just so hard and I can't do it anymore L, I'm sorry I'm sorry-_

"I'm sorry, L. I can't."

* * *

"Matt."

A grunt.

"Matt."

"Matty."

"Be quiet, Mel, I'm working."

"You're boring is what you are."

Matt eyes Mello critically from where he crouches in front of a mess of wires and plastic parts—presumably his newborn child, for all the attention and reverence he's showing it. His fingers are poised above the nearest tangle and he's slipped a tiny screwdriver behind his ear for safe keeping as he gets organized. His goggles, Mello notices, are pushed up into his hair to keep it out of his eyes.

In contrast, Mello has not yet changed out of his pajamas today, and is currently lounging on the couch, looking bored out of his mind. He shifts positions so their faces are almost touching.

Take a break, Matty, Mello admonishes. Did you even sleep last night? Matt had been working on the thrice-damned project ever since L had called him yesterday. Or eat? Mello adds as he thinks of this contingency.

is Matt's only reply. His face is smooth and blank, belying the concentration that lurks just behind his eyes. He returns his gaze to the computer he's building and exhales a breath of toxic smoke. Mello hates it when Matt smokes around him. He leans over and makes to snatch the cigarette, but forgets Matt's lightening fast reflexes (courtesy of video games), and Matt deftly twists it away from him and ducks as Mello tries to grab him.

"Mello!" Matt admonishes. "I'm working here!"

I hate it when you smoke around me, Mello says petulantly, well aware that he sounds like he's pouting (because he is).

It's a big fucking house, you know, Matt reminds him. There are like a dozen other rooms, plus there's Whammy's an hour away. You don't have to be near me when I smoke; it's not like I'm gonna leave this room or anything.

With a grimace, Mello collapses back down on the couch. He sighs expressively. Matt eyes him for a moment more, then cautiously turns back to his work.

Mello does try. He thinks about all the different ways to entertain himself—but unfortunately all those ways involve things that he and Matt decided were either Impermissable or Regrettable Behavior. That is to say, shooting anything with a pulse, burning things, smashing things, taunting Near, maiming Near, and pickpocketing.

Finally, Mello decides, "Matt, you're being boring."

Go shoot someone or something then, Matt snaps. He doesn't bother to look up. Good God, Mello, can't you entertain yourself for like one day?

Mello's face morphs itself into a fairly good imitation of despair. he says. I'll just go blow up the orphanage then, if you don't want me.

"Just don't get caught in the blast again," Matt mutters as he retrieves the screwdriver from his hair. "I don't have time to clean up after you."

Mello hops off the couch and goes to sit next to Matt on the floor. He collapses in a graceful heap and sits cross-legged, leaning forward to get a better view. Matt mostly ignores him, except for a minimal tightening of the skin around his eyes, which lets Mello know that Matt knows he's there and would rather he wasn't.

It isn't until Mello reaches forward to touch one of the computer parts that Matt really reacts. Matt's hand snaps out and grabs Mello's wrist with surprising speed.

Matt looks at him—finally—and sighs. "Don't touch," he says. "You don't know what you're doing."

I do, Mello says indignantly. We took the same classes, Matty.

Matt takes another deep breath of smoke and exhales—away from Mello. Mello, come on, Matt says. I'm trying to build a supercomputer and a complex program within the next three days. I'm kinda on a schedule.

"You seem stressed today, Matty," Mello informs him.

"And you seem to be attuned to and inversely synchronized with my moods," Matt snaps back, eyes returning to his project.

Mello thinks it's cute how Matt starts using big words and more complicated sentence structure when he's stressed. I want to help, he finally says, not bothering to address Matt's comment.

Matt tears his eyes away again. "Kay," he says, "but no complaining about the repetitive work, my cigarette smoke, or me ordering you around."

Mello makes a face. he agrees. What can I do?

Matt points to a jumble of wires. "Can you get all those untangled?" he asks. "Just lay each one out as you get it. Then, I'm gonna need more silicone glue in about an hour. Could you run and get that?"

Mello nods and reaches for the wires. If this is how Matt gets when he's given an assignment, then Mello is going to be careful to keep him occupied with other, less serious things in the future.

* * *

"Man, will you shut the hell up? I told you I've got everything!"

"Well, give it to me then! What's the fucking problem?"

"The fucking problem is that you haven't given me my money."

I told you I'd pay you, my bitch just took my money, I'll get it back from her soon's I find her!

"No cash no goods, you know that."

"Come on, man. You know I'm good for it."

"What do I know? You haven't paid me the last two times, you already owe me 60, you fucker!"

"I owe you 40, maybe. Just hand it over!"

"Fuck no! I-"

"Give it!"

"The hell? Get off me!"

"Give it to me and maybe I won't beat the shit-"

"What the hell, man? You don't jump me like that!"

"The hell I don't!"

* * *

_He thinks that he should be cold, because that is the last thing he remembers. But instead, he just feels very warm and drowsy and comfortable. He half opens his eyes and sees a dark-haired figure crouching next to him on the bed. _

"_L?" he murmurs, trying to make his eyes focus. _

"_Yes, Light-kun, I'm here. L's voice is gentle and his smile is soft. He reaches out one of his hands and runs it so gently over Light's hair and across his eyelids. Light lets his eyes close and watches patterns dances on them as the sunlight moves through the trees outside their window._

"_L, what are you-" he starts._

"_Shh, it's okay. You just rest. You're okay." _

So nice_, Light thinks_. He's right. I am okay. And it just feels so nice . . .

_Light can't help it, he smiles and breathes deep, relaxing and melting into the bed below him. _

_After a long moment, he moves closer and takes one of L's hands. "I missed you," he says softly, kissing the palm and looking up into L's eyes, wondering how he'll take it, wondering if he-_

_L smiles back and relaxes and lays down next to him. he murmurs, and he almost doesn't have to say anything else, just hearing his name from those lips is enough for Light. _

_It's just so warm and so nice and calm. There is finally . . . finally no fear, and Light presses his face into the soft cotton of L's ever-present white shirt._

_L tentatively brushes his lips against Light's temple and cheek and finally, his lips. "I'm so glad you're back," he whispers, and Light imagines that he might have heard a catch in his voice. _

"_L, you know I didn't mean it," Light hears himself saying after a long moment. "You know I want to stay with you," he adds, willing L to understand. _

_He does. Of course he does. Of course, Light-kun, L tells him, brushing articulate fingers through his hair. I'm sorry I couldn't save you._

"_You have, I'm safe," Light insists. "I'm okay." He moves again and presses cold lips to the heat and delicacy of L's throat. L makes a small noise and swallows with some effort. Light can still hear the reassuring, rhythmic sound of L's heartbeat, feeling the warmth of soft skin and gentle cotton and sighing as L's long, pale fingers move through his hair still. _

"_I love you," L says, kissing the top of his head, and Light's breath catches in his throat. He's always laughed at shows like this, books with scenes like this, he'd always scoffed at people who thought that meant so much, but when he looks at L and sees the utter transparency and urgent honesty on his features, it just feels so right—it just feels like it fixes everything, like everything that's been so wrong doesn't exist, doesn't matter. Like being with L, like being sane and content with L is enough. Like it's what he's been looking for. _

_It feels like he's been wandering and so lost, and now he's come home._

_Light looks up at him. Smiles. "I-" he begins._

Everything shatters, and Light jerks awake as his world suddenly turns inside out and everything is wrong, is different, is cold and rough-

He realizes he can't breathe, and he can hear shouting and cursing. He tries to move, jerks violently, and then realizes that there's something moving around him-

On _top _of him.

He jerks again, and whatever—whoever—it is also starts and tries to push off of him.

Light hears more yelling, realizes it's English and makes the switch in his mind. It doesn't help because the screaming is almost unintelligible. He pushes with his hands, realizes that there is a third person keeping the other guy down on the ground—down on top of _him_.

Light shouts, adding to the confusion and cacophony of the scene. Neither guy listenes to him as they continue to beat the shit out of each other. Light can understand a little—screams make it sound desperate and they're both shouting about money, about goods and Light knows instinctively, not even thinking, that he needs to be gone. One punch goes awry and lands squarely on his jaw, making him hiss a curse and roll so he's finally put a little distance between himself and the fight. He struggles to his feet, addled by pain and confusion and the hunger and cold. Light pauses for a moment and stares stupidly at the scene, wondering what happened to the white, warm bedroom with L. He shivers at the memory and for a moment, it blinds him—then he sees the glint of silver in the night and he lands hard in reality. Silver flashing means weapons, means guns and knives and _danger_.

He doesn't think, barely even breathes, doesn't pause, he's just scared and panicking and suddenly he realizes that he's

_running_, fast, down streets and alleys, putting as much distance as he can between himself and the fight, hearing a gunshot in the far distance, running even harder

feet pounding on the pavement, rhythmic, like a drum, like a

heartbeat, and he pushes himself harder, fueled by fear and adrenaline and unthinking panic, feeling his lungs burn as he gasps for breath and his ankles are on _fire_, they hurt so badly but he doesn't stop, there's not enough blocks between them, he doesn't want to get hurt, he doesn't want to _die_.

He can feel the frigid air rushing past his face, glancing off his cheekbones and making the skin there raw and red, but he doesn't stop, doesn't know if he can stop, but he can feel his heart pounding so loud in his chest and up in his throat and knows that he can't keep this up, he's too hungry, too weak-

He sees a light on in one of the markets and seizes the opportunity, darting into it, pressing his back to the door and panting, hard. He keeps his eyes wide open and unseeing, and colors and lights flash but he pays them no mind, just focuses on his heartbeat and lungs and breath and works on controlling them all until he's reasonably certain that he's not going to have a heart attack. (And ha, wouldn't that be hilarious, Kira finally has a heart attack, all those years later?)

He rests his head back against the glass door, feeling sweat roll down the side of his face. He reaches up with trembling hands to wipe it away and gasps in another breath. It's finally easier to breathe, and he lets his hand fall and angles his face down so he's looking in front of him, not just at the ceiling.

Light realizes with a jolt that he's in a gas station and that the two people other than himself inside of it are staring at him with peculiar expressions. He gives them a weak smile and tries to explain, but closes his mouth when the words just don't come. He looks away and starts to run his hands through his hair (nervous habit), but stops in disgust at the grime and ice he finds there.

The two people—a woman behind the counter and a man looking at cigarettes, stare at him a moment longer and then turn back to their tasks.

"Is there a bathroom?" Light asks. He is not ready to interact with these people, not when he's at this kind of awful disadvantage of being horribly winded and filthy and exhausted and starving.

The woman eyes him suspiciously, but then nods and hands him a key. "Here," she says shortly.

Once in, he locks the door and, with no thought to the filth on the floor, sinks into a crouch and breathes, long and deep. It smells foul in here, but it is warm (not the same kind of warm as that wonderful dream, but warm enough) and at least he's alone. After a few minutes he can breathe normally, and he stands and limps over to the mirror in front of him. His ankles burn like ice held too long on his skin, and he grits his teeth, thinking how stupid it was to run like that. He stares at himself in the mirror for a long moment, and all he can think is that the cashier should have thrown him out right away.

He is filthy, with hair sticking up and grime streaked across his face. His lips are cracked and bleeding and the red in his cheeks from the cold and wind make him look feverish, almost comical.

What is visible of his body is bone white and his hands are scored by cuts and bite marks. Light shivers—not frightened, exactly, by his appearance, but suddenly curious to know who—or what—is underneath all that terror and grime.

He can't get the water warm, which is a shame, and he can't do anything about his filthy clothes, but he washes off the best he can, using the soap and paper towels to rinse out and dry his hair. He uses the restroom and scrubs down his hands, arms, face, and neck. He feels sticky and awful but the warm water helps some, and he doesn't know why but he's desperate to at least look like a human being again, instead of this skittish animal that's been sleeping on the street for the past few hours (days?).

He finally looks back in the mirror to assess himself twenty minutes later, and he nods, more or less satisfied.

Light tentatively, shakily, exits the bathroom and hands the cashier the key. He turns to go and, as he stumbles, realizes that _he is fucking starving_. He reaches into his pocket instinctively, remembering that B had given him some money, and pulls out a few bills (what are they, 20s, 50s? Less? He doesn't know, the numbers swim in front of his eyes and he blinks and shoves the money back in his pocket.).

He grabs some packaged food and coffee, as well as a toothbrush and pain killers (because good Lord, does he have a headache) and tosses them up on the counter.

The woman up there is still looking at him with no small amount of suspicion, but his money is good, so she shrugs and rings him up. Light grabs what he's paid for and turns to go, shoving it all in his jacket pockets.

And then he stops.

_What the hell is he doing?_

There are no words for the shock and fear that strike him so suddenly that he almost keels over right there in a Chicago gas station in the middle of the night. He grips the counter, and thinks that he can hear distantly, the clerk talking to him, but there is a roaring in his ears and he shudders-

He stares at the blindingly bright florescent lights and the colors—reds and greens and blues and yellows and every color he can remember (colors like summer, like living, like _L_)—that have suddenly replaced his gray, dim world. His knees go weak and he grips the counter even harder for support.

He had been so ready to die—so close to dying! He had been starving, or freezing, or both.

And now . . .

His mind is blank for a long moment as gears whir furiously, coming to the inevitable conclusion. But for a moment, his vision goes white and he shudders. He hears a loud ringing—like bells—in his ears, and thinks, hazily, _This is the sound of a world shattering, turning upside down and in on itself._

Because he's just realized . . .

He doesn't want to die.

* * *

A/N: AUGH fjkal;hreio this chapter I just want to take this chapter and SHOOT IT IN THE FACE. We are not friends, this chapter and I. But I just got so sick of writing and rewriting and effing thinking about it ALL THE TIME so I finally just took my most recent draft and I was like, here. Just . . . here. Take it. Bleh. I really, really hope you guys like this because I don't think I've ever been so insecure about a chapter IN MY LIFE. Argh well at least from here on out we won't have as much introspection in these chapters, Good Lord, is anyone else sick to death of Light frickin _whining_ all the time?

Whew. Okay. I'm okay. Like I said, less introspection, more plot from here on out. It's gonna be okay you guys. As always, I have the rest of this story planned out, and I'm really excited for it! This chapter just really stretched me and pushed me out of my comfort zone as a writer. There's nothing and no one for the characters to react to! Matt and Mello, as usual, were the easiest to write.

Oh, and a GREAT BIG THANK YOU to people who have been reading and reviewing even though I haven't been posting. I know I don't reply as often as I should, but thank you so so much. It really motivates me to work when I see that people read my work and it affects them. So THANK YOU!

Anyway. I know it's been forever since I updated, but PLEASE review, because writing all this has been agony, and I'm dying to know what people think and where people think the story's going. Okay, thanks, I love you, I'll kill baby mammals and birds if I get an insufficient number of reviews!


	13. Ready

Full title for this chapter: **On Your Mark, Get Set . . . **

A/N: I could spend a ton of time explaining my absence, talking about how psyched I am about this chapter, blah blah blah, but you've all waited long enough. Let's just jump right in, shall we?

* * *

Light spends three days in a crappy motel with adequate food, cockroaches, and very hot showers and good soap before he jerks awake one morning at about 4 a.m. He'd been dreaming and suddenly his dream had switched from him jumping off a cliff to someone slamming a mallet into his temple over and over. A few seconds after he wakes up, he realizes that that's because in real life, it actually feels like someone's doing just that. A few more seconds, and Light finally understands that someone is hammering insistently at his motel room door and he has a horrible migraine. Fucking withdrawals.

He drags himself out of the cheap bed and trips over the scratchy bedspread before dizzily making his way to the door. Luckily, his porch light hasn't burned out, so he can check who's there. He looks into the peephole, forces his eyes to focus, and finally sees-

"B!" he says, hauling the door in and slamming it as soon as B's inside. "Where the hell have you been?" he demands.

B looks at him curiously. "Japan, mostly," he says obligingly enough.

"What took so long?" Light presses. "I almost fucking _died_ out here!"

"That's hardly my problem, is it?" B counters, sitting down on the bed and pawing through a backpack he's had with him.

"It's been below freezing the whole time I've been here, and I only have these clothes," Light tells him, gesturing towards what he's wearing.

"It's not like I told you to come here without a coat."

"You didn't tell me to come _with _a coat either," Light sneers. He's still standing. As weirdly confident as he's feeling right now, he still doesn't want to get too close.

"Light," B says. "Light, it's Chicago. In the winter. Since we haven't actually gone anywhere outside of the northern hemisphere, you should have presumably known it was still winter here_ like everywhere else we've been so far_ ."

B locates a jar of what presumably is strawberry jam but since the lights are dim in here it could be human blood for all Light knows (or cares). He offers some to Light, who doesn't even bother to dignify that with an answer. Neither of them say anything for a moment while B eats (noisily, Light notes irritably), but finally B sets the jar aside and says, "I think you've gotten quite cocky in my absence."

Light rolls his eyes and sinks into the solitary chair in the room. "Yes, not having you here to keep me from freezing or starving to death has certainly taken a toll on my effervescent self-esteem."

"You _have_ regained some of your old arrogance," B says, and he sounds a bit put out. "I'll have to see what I can do to fix that."

"How the hell did you find me here anyway?" Light asks, not liking B's tone or the way his eyes gleam when he says that.

"I have people," B tells him.

"You do not."

"Well, I met people. They were all very eager to tell me what I wanted to know."

Light scrutinizes him. "So you killed a bunch of people to find me."

"Oh, please, Light, don't act like you're the center of the universe," B shoots back, pulling himself up into an L-like crouch on the bed. "I killed a bunch of people because it was _fun _and also to get L's tail off me and also to find you."

Light simultaneously sits up straighter in his chair and tries to shrink back into it when B mentions L. B laughs.

"Is he . . . is L here?" Light asks. His fingers tighten on the armrests of the chair and he shakes his head a little to stay in the present, to stay sane. He blinks hard and the room stops shaking for a moment.

"Hell if I know," B says. "He's on his way here, I'm sure, because I was followed to the airport and they saw me buy a ticket to JFK international."

"How'd you get here from New York City?" Light asks, trying to calculate the distance.

"I hitched some rides, stole a few cars. Killed some more people. Just the usual," B tells him with a toothy grin.

Light shudders at the expression. "So, as far as you know, they don't know we're here."

"Yes," B confirms, and Light relaxes. "What's wrong?" B asks after a brief pause. "Afraid your lover isn't going to be too pleased with what you've been up to?"

Light glares. "We're hardly-" he begins, then cuts himself off. He takes a deep breath. "I don't want him getting in the way before I can finish everything I came here to do," he says. "That's all."

B hums a little, but doesn't seem to care to argue with a statement that is so blatantly untrue. He looks around at the tiny motel room, and Light can practically see him gathering information as his eyes scan and his head turns.

It is only when B looks towards the light of the bathroom that Light finally notices. "What happened to your face?" he asks, before he can think better of the question. B's razor sharp gaze moves back around and pins him where he is.

"This?" B says softly, placing a hand over the dark purple bruise on his jaw. Light doesn't dare nod. B's mood swings are almost as horrible and volatile as his own. "This?" B asks again. "It's a gift from Lawliet."

Light stares at him. It's not as though he hasn't seen L fight before—quite the contrary, actually. But he'd never expected L to get so close to B. It's dangerous, L shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't be risking all this just to find Light . . .

Light has realized, of course, how much hell L was going to go through with him gone. But seeing him in that hotel, and realizing that L placed himself in the same room with B, possibly even getting the Japanese police to work on it . . . and if anyone ever found out, if anyone so much as glimpsed Light, anyone at all who'd known him . . .

It would destroy L. It would destroy everything he stood for and everything he'd worked for.

Light groans softly and places his head in his hands gingerly. "Why would you do that?" he mutters into his hands, his voice hardly audible. "Why risk that-" He takes a deep breath, thinking that there was maybe something he was supposed to be doing right now and he's not doing it?

"Light," B sing-songs, softly. Light's head jerks up and he looks at B with wide eyes. He blinks a few times and pushes at the armrests until he's sitting up fully.

"What?" Light asks, and he sounds winded, like he's just come back from running a marathon. B just grins. "What, B?" Light demands.

After a moment, B smiles again and stands, languidly. Light, with great effort, stays where he's sitting and manages not to flinch when B moves to stand in front of him. B places his hands on either armrest, trapping Light's wrists and moving closer.

"Stop it, B," Light tells him, managing to keep the strain out of his voice. "I just want to go get the Death Note from that bank."

"You know," B says, completely ignoring Light's request, "it occurs to me that I have been very generous and tolerant of you on this little adventure of ours."

Light rolls his eyes and starts to turn his head away so B's face won't be so close to his. His heart is pounding, but he thinks he's keeping his breathing fairly steady.

B keeps one hand on the chair but reaches out to grip Light's face, hard, and turn it back to him. "You're not easy to keep out of trouble, you know," he murmurs. His eyes are sharp and amused, and his thumb brushes Light's lips, scraping his nail across the sensitive skin.

"Let go of me," Light snaps, unable to stay completely calm anymore.

B grins, as though Light's words were all he's been waiting for, and he presses his lips to Light's.

It can hardly be called a kiss, Light thinks, because it's more teeth and tongue than anything, and B's hand never lets go of his jaw, he just presses harder, moves closer.

Light reaches up with his free hand and shoves at B as hard as he can. This breaks the contact for just a moment, and the look B gives him could only be described as homicidal.

"Oh, I'm sorry," B says. "Did you want me to stop?" He moves in again, this time gripping both of Light's wrists and placing them on the chair back and holding them. "Have you decided you don't need me to pretend anymore? That you're somehow stable, or you've seen the worst insanity can do to you?" He pauses and presses a kiss just under Light's jaw, then captures his earlobe in his teeth and bites softly. "You haven't," B whispers to him, words like poison, like slick tar twisting and sliding around him, choking him. "You aren't better, Light. I won't allow it."

He kisses Light again, and this time it's worse because when Light turns his head away to end it, B just slips over to his ear and bites the lobe, hard this time. Light manages not to whimper, instead just making a small, choked noise in the back of his throat. He can feel B's smile and then move down to the prickling skin on his neck. He bites there too, and sucks, and Light can feel the room spinning again, shaking, it feels like he sliding up the walls, feels like he drowning in the chair, and his wrists go limp for a moment and in the same moment he forgets what he's fighting against.

What . . . what is he fighting, exactly? Pain? Pleasure? It does feel good, though, and Light starts to feel very warm and it's pleasant except in the instances that fear flashes across his mind, streaked there like paint, like mud, and he shivers and can hear someone in the room laugh—but he's not sure it's not him.

Sound, accompanied by reality, comes roaring back to him when B bites down hard enough on his neck to break skin, and he hears himself gasp. In a sort of horror, he can hear his own breathing, loud and heavy, and he feels B's hands on his chest (when the hell had that happened, since when was he shirtless?), running down his sides, fingers stroking just above the waistband of his jeans.

Light shivers and turns away even more—more than just about anything, he does not want to do this right now. He's been doing fine, been doing better lately . . . he's clean and he's eating and he's warm, he hasn't had a major breakdown since he left the gas station a few days ago and he gets to have his minor ones in peace. He does _not _need B screwing this up for him.

"B, get off," he says forcefully, shoving him with both hands now that B has let go of him.

B stumbles backwards and falls onto the bed, and stares at Light for a moment. Then his gaze hardens and his shoulders are rigid and Light realizes that he maybe just made a mistake.

But when B speaks, his tone is far from angry. "What's the matter, Light?" he asks in a syrupy, saccharine voice. His tone might be sweet, but his eyes are hot and angry and Light swallows. B stands and moves towards Light, who also stands up, not wanting to be at a disadvantage anymore. "Does this make you uncomfortable?" B continues. He grips Light's hair and slams him into the wall. Light blinks, dazed for a moment. "Do you want me stop?" he whispers, grip tightening in his hair and body pressing against Light. He leans in until they're nearly nose to nose, and there is no trace of a smile, manic or otherwise, on his features.

"Yes," Light says, finally finding his voice. "And-"

"_Or_, is the real problem that you don't want me—you want _him_?" B asks. He smiles, just a little, when this makes Light freeze. "You're not interested in having sex with me as long as I'm _me_. But when I'm _L_ . . . it's a whole different story, isn't it, Light-kun?"

Light shudders as his shame and awful guilt at that memory nearly overcome him. He closes his eyes because he cannot stand to see B fashion his expression into one of L's again. He doesn't want to hear it when B speaks exactly like him, down to the patterns and idiosyncrasies and even the low, soft tone L uses when he's trying to calm Light down.

He can feel as B moves in again, this time slowly; and again B presses a kiss to Light's trembling lips, but he is gentle, moves softly, takes time to brush his fingers along Light's jaw and into his hair, stroking, tender. Light can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes because dammit, it feels so good and he knows he can't do this again, knows it would kill him, but he wants to so much, wants to be with _L _so much it feels like his insides are burning, shriveling, drying up and curdling.

He places his hands on B's shoulders and then shifts so he's pressing his forehead into B's shoulder, and he's just trying to _breathe, _goddammit, he just needs air so badly he feels that drowning sensation again, like his lungs can't get enough, the air here is too thin and he's trying so hard but everything is running away from him, escaping, like he's stuck, like he's dying.

B watches all this curiously, wondering what exactly Light is trying to do. He's gasping for air, but B knows perfectly well that he can breathe fine. He wonders what would be the best thing to do here—best meaning most entertaining, best meaning whatever will get him the best reaction—and can't decide whether he should keep being L, or switch back and just take what he wants.

On the one hand, Light has enjoyed getting the two of them confused before. B grins as he remembers that, his grip on Light tightening momentarily. On the other, if Light is going to act like this the whole time, all scared and weepy and just generally obnoxious, then B is not interested.

"Light," he tries gently. Light does not answer, and he just keeps staring at the ground. B frowns at this apparent lack of reaction. So that option's out then. Fine by him.

"Light," he says, and the whipcrack snap in his voice makes Light look up at him and release his arms. B doesn't let go of him, though, and uses Light's apparent state of confusion to his advantage. He pushes him back against the wall again, this time harder, and Light makes a small noise of pain.

"Let me go," Light says.

"No," B answers with a messy, hungry smile. He reaches down and starts to undo Light's jeans.

Light shoves him away—or tries.

B leans in and presses warm lips against Light's throat. Light's throat moves when he swallows and B relishes the movement he can feel under his teeth. His nose gently skims the sensitive skin as he moves around to the sensitive place just under Light's ear. He bites down there, hard, and drinks in the soft whimpers Light makes. "Stop it," Light whispers.

"But Light, I've got something wonderful planned," B murmurs. His fingers curl tighter around Light's wrist, pressing gently, pads of his fingers close to the veins and his nails digging in just a little to the soft place just under Light's thumb. Light's hand twitches like he's considering jerking it away, but B tightens his grip for a moment, just a little, just a little threat, and Light goes still under him.

B absolutely _loves_ this, he loves having an unwilling Light under his control, obeying even his nonverbal orders. He loves being able to direct with just a touch, command with only a sound. He loves that he can make Light react in a way that L would never react. He can feel his own body responding to the stimulus and he grins against Light's neck. Light doesn't know it yet, but he is in for a world of pain.

B keeps one hand wrapped around Light's wrist, still pressing gently, and he keeps pressing soft kisses to the bite marks he's already made on the pale, fragile skin there. Light's skin so often feels like Japanese rice paper, dry and soft and utterly ready to tear the minute B grips harder, jerks faster. He keeps one hand there to keep Light from getting any ideas about gaining back some of the control in this situation, and with the other, he reaches into the back pocket of his own tattered jeans.

Light's breath catches when B tongues the skin over the delicate veins that pulse near his windpipe, and his eyes finally close as B draws it into his mouth, sucking rhythmically. Light sighs, shakily, and his body relaxes tentatively, molds further against B's. He's wavering, some parts of him still tense, and others ready to be lost, pain forgotten in whatever agony or pleasure B has planned.

_Now, _B thinks, and before Light can take another breath, B's switchblade is out and the flat of it is pressed just underneath the indentation on Light's throat.

Light feels the cold and the silver of unforgiving metal and he sucks in a breath of air quickly, gasping for a moment until B presses harder and then he is still.

"Now," B says, and his voice, _oh_, that voice, it's so soft and gentle and it's the voice he makes when he's pretending, when he's not B anymore, it's the voice he uses to persuade, to convince, to make Light believe it's not B he's talking to but _L_.

Light swallows, hard. "B?" he asks tentatively.

B doesn't answer, just chuckles against Light's throat, where his lips are still positioned. "Do you really think so?" he asks, his tone flecked with emotions—a little doubt here, some tenderness there.

"Release me," Light says, and his voice is frigid.

"But I told you I had something wonderful planned," B reminds him.

"I don't want anything from you," Light tells him, and B thinks it sounds like Light's trying to convince himself.

"Couldn't I be L, though?" B insists. "Don't you want something from him?"

"If you were L, you'd hardly be holding a switchblade to my chest hard enough to draw blood," Light counters drily.

"Hmm," B considers. Then he slips the blade back into his pocket. Light has a good point; and besides, there'll be plenty of time for that later.

"That's a step in the right direction," Light tells him. "Now let go of me."

B presses his lips to Light's in a quick kiss. "Relax, Light," he suggests. "We'll be going to the bank tomorrow for the Death Note, remember, and then it's off to find Crowley, if that's what you want."

"I don't see what that has to do with this," Light says. For once, his thoughts seem crystal clear and razor sharp. With the knife gone, he's just looking for a good opportunity to get the hell out of here.

"I suppose one might say you owe me," B suggests, kissing him again. "I've gotten you all the way out here, haven't I?"

"I've paid my debt to you," Light snaps. "We're more than even. I get the Death Note and Crowley, and you get to torment L. I thought that was the deal."

B starts laughing. "How about we negotiate the terms?" he suggests, and moves in for another, more invasive kiss.

Light is still for a split second, and then grips B's jaw and shoves him away from himself with all the strength he can muster. Consequences be damned, he is sick to death of B's games. He is past thinking about the wisdom of antagonizing the mass murderer he's sharing a motel room with. All he wants is _space, _and _quiet. _"Get off of me!" he near-screams. He's breaking, but it's not the same as before, he doesn't feel splintered and shattered and helpless; he can literally see red licking at the edges of his vision and his anger and hatred are nearly consuming him.

B laughs and shoves him back. "Aw, is Light-kun worried I'm going to hurt him?" he asks.

"No, but I'm God-damned sick of you shoving your tongue down my throat every other time I see you," Light snarls. "I don't want you, and I don't want you pretending to be L, either."

"Could've fooled me," B says nonchalantly, inspecting his bloodstained nails.

For a moment, Light's rage overcomes him in the face of B's utter contempt for what he's saying (because for Light, this is revelation, this is empowerment), and in a shuddering flash, he suddenly finds himself several feet forward with aching knuckles and he blinks, surprised, when he sees B sprawled on the floor a few feet in front of him. Then he puts two and two together and after a moment's thought, he figures that if he's going to get the shit beaten out of him for this, he might as well start now.

B stares up at him in amazement and, more importantly, rage, and Light doesn't wait till he's fully recovered. Ignoring every sense that's screaming to him that this is a terrible idea, Light grins at B and then launches himself at him before he can get up.

B knows capoiera; Light had figured that he would, considering his obsession with L. But Light also knows how to fight back, given that he's had a great deal of experience with this style of fighting.

_Grinning _isn't quite the right word, he's not having _fun_ doing this; but his teeth are bared in a primal, feral expression of satisfaction as he wraps both hands around B's ankle as B tries to kick him and then pulls as hard as he can. He sends them both wholly off balance, but Light hears B crash into the chair behind him while he himself only lands sprawled on the bed.

B recovers quicker than Light thought he would, though, and he feels a sharp pain near his shoulder as B's foot comes down on his chest. He takes the adrenaline his body is producing and jumps to his feet. He's already panting, hard, he knows that he doesn't have much time before his malnourished body quits on him, but until it does, he's going to make B hurt as bad as he can. So he bares his teeth again and moves back in.

* * *

"_Fuck!_" is the panicked noise Mello hears as he walks back into the room carrying dinner. "Fuck fuck fuck—oh, no, yes! Okay, yes, yes, this is going to work; okay, yes, please work with me babe, please turn out this time . . ." Matt is muttering around his cigarette and Mello wrinkles his nose as he notices again how smoky the room is. Matt has been chain smoking for something like two and a half days now and even though Mello has opened windows, the place still reeks.

"Hey, Matt," Mello says, setting down the takeout on the coffee table. There's no response from the utterly absorbed gamer. Matt's red head stays down and his fingers fly across the keys of his newly constructed super computer. "Matt!" Mello snaps, his voice loud and commanding.

Matt's head snaps up at the sound and he stares at Mello for a moment, his eyes glazed and uncomprehending. Mello guesses that all Matt can see are lines and lines and layers and layers of code at this point, since it's all he's been seeing for the past day. Recognition eventually dawns on Matt's features, though, and he says, "What."

"Dinner," Mello announces, pointing to the bag on the table. Matt stares at it like he has never heard the word or seen the McDonald's logo before in his life and then his head moves back, jerkily, so he can stare at Mello some more.

"No time," he manages, before bending his head and starting to type again.

Mello sighs and then strides over to Matt's chair and jerks it away from the computer. Matt spins around and stares at Mello in amazement.

"There damn well is time, Matt," Mello says irritably. "You've ingested nothing but energy drinks and cigarettes for nearly three days."

"I'm almost done, Mel," Matt groans, looking over his shoulder at the computer.

"Then you have time to take a quick break to cram the burger and fries I got you in your mouth," Mello snaps, feeling oddly like a slighted housewife. He does not like this feeling.

Matt glowers at him for a moment, then stands abruptly and stalks over to the coffee table. Mello watches in utter shock as Matt downs the burger, fries, and Coke in about 60 seconds before he stomps back to Mello, snatches the chair from him and wheels himself back to the computer. "Now don't interrupt me again," Matt mutters darkly.

"What if I'm dying?" Mello asks. "Or there's a fire?"

"Not even then," Matt says, and by the distant tone in his voice, Mello can tell he's long gone.

Mello rolls his eyes and collapses on the couch; just as he does, his cell phone started to ring. Loud. Matt turns and gives him a scathing look, so Mello sighs and moves out of the room, thinking that the program had better be the fucking Mona Lisa of coding, or Matt's gonna live to regret acting like a total asshole.

Slamming the door on his way out for good measure, Mello finally looks down at his cell and groans aloud when he sees who it is. He presses the talk button and snarls, "Would you stop fucking calling me all the time? Can't you solve your own cases, Near?"

"I have already explained to Mello why his assistance could prove very vital to the case," Near tells him. "I only wished to reiterate this since there has been a new slew of killings recently in-"

"No one says 'slew' anymore, Near. It was never even a thing."

He can hear Near's frown. "I fail to see how that's relevant," he begins.

"I fail to see how _you're _relevant," Mello shrieks, and then hangs up. God, he has had way too little sleep in the past few days and too much alone time if that's the best he can do against Near. He heads to a bedroom, deciding that he's going to sleep and not waking up until Matt's normal again.

* * *

2:02 p.m. in New York City, and the three greatest detectives in the world is collapsed in the center of a hotel bed, completely dead to the world.

Whammy had seen it coming, of course. L has been high strung and panicked for days and days, and he certainly isn't as young as he used to be. Even with all the sugar he's consumed in an effort to stay awake, in the end his exhaustion has taken its toll and he had to leave the tracking of Beyond to his (very capable) agents.

For a moment, Quillsh Whammy rests on the edge of the bed and rests a light hand on L's head, smiling fondly as L mutters something and buries his face further into the comforter and sighs. The smiles slips right off his face, though, when he remembers why L is currently curled into the fetal position on a strange bed during the middle of the day in New York. This case has really taken its toll on his charge, and the circles under his dark eyes have seemed darker and more immoveable than ever. That's why he isn't waking L up yet—that, and the fact that there haven't been any leads in the eight hours L has been asleep.

Whammy pats L's head once or twice and then stands, wincing as his knees give him a bit of trouble. No use staying and possibly waking L up; the detective needs his rest if he's ever going to get through this in one piece.

* * *

3:17 p.m. in New York City, and L's personal cell phone starts to ring on the nightstand where's he's set it to charge. In an instant, L reaches full wakefulness and snatches the phone up, delivering a hasty, "Yes?" when he answers.

"L." It is Matt's voice, and he sounds breathy and exhausted and enthralled all at once. "L, it _works_."

L closes his eyes as a heady feeling of overwhelming relief washes over him. "You mean the program, Matt? Have you found him?"

Matt laughs, and he sounds clumsy and hoarse. L wonders briefly how long he's been awake now to get this project finished. "Hell yes," he answers. "The program's already gone through a few . . . what's higher than billion? Trillion? Gazillion? Sept-"

"Matt!"

"Yes, okay, fine. Yeah, it's pulled up a couple of images of him. A few days ago he was at the O'Hare airport, and then he disappeared for a while. The computer just barely found an image of him about three days ago at a beat up gas station in the wrong part of Chicago. I can send you the video feed; it's a little sketchy, but-"

"Yes, please, Matt, send me whatever you've got," L says quickly. There's a brief pause and then L's computer lights up as it receives an email. "If you find anything else, please send it over right away. And, Matt, thank you," L says, and then hangs up without waiting for an answer. He scrambles over to his laptop and drags up the files. He's breathless waiting for them to load, then his eyes devour the grainy images of Light.

The first few are fairly good quality, and they show Light stepping off an international flight, looking tired and shell-shocked, but well put together. He walks (only a bit unsteadily) towards the exit, not bothering with baggage, and he stops for a long minute when he first steps outside. L worries at his lower lip as he sees that the weather is well below freezing and Light has only a thin jacket for warmth.

Soon enough though, Light's expression hardens and he heads off into the frigid wind without looking back.

Eagerly, L pulls up the next files, and his heart stops when he does. "Oh, Light," he whispers, because he can barely believe that the emaciated, ragged-looking shell of a human being (who on the video is staring unseeing at the ceiling of the gas station store) is really his Light. Light looks . . . in a word, terrible. He is filthy and his face is absolutely terrified. His cheeks are bright with cold (and fever?), and he is shivering so hard L thinks he must be in an advanced state of hypothermia.

But the image of Light does not collapse with hunger as L is half-afraid he might. He shuffles up to the counter and has a brief exchange with the cashier, after which he heads to the back of the store.

L breathes for a moment before he opens the next video. He has to see it, he has to know where Light is, how he looks, but he is so afraid that Light is going to look worse, is going to be thinner or look more haggard. He actually breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Light come out of the back looking more put together than before. His clothing still hangs off of him, but L can see he steps with more surety, and he has rinsed off the worst of the filth. The rest of the video consists of him buying food and coffee and painkillers, which L actually approves of, before heading out of the store.

For a moment, L stares at the last image of Light's back, trying to accept that that is really all there is, that out of the hundreds of trillions of videos and images that that's all that Matt could find . . . and at the same time so grateful to have anything to go by, any lead to follow, that it leaves him breathless and euphoric. He rests his head on the top of the smooth wooden desk. He's so close, these videos are only hours old and he knows that B was headed to Chicago from the reports of his agents who'd last seen him. L allows himself to breathe for just a few seconds, but as feelings like panic and joy and intense fear and crippling depression start to set in, he jerks upright and calls his agents and Whammy.

They are all headed to Chicago, in only minutes if L can help it (and he can, damn it, he is in charge, isn't he?). And yet, there's something in the back of his mind, some detail that he swears he's overlooked, and even as he speaks to Whammy about flying arrangements (he's calling in all kinds of favors, everything anyone's ever owed him is going to be paid by the end of this and L doesn't care), he knows that something's missing, something's wrong.

And he wonders why they would be in Chicago, what the hell is in Chicago?

Because it can't possibly be the Death Note, that was in Japan with Misa (presumably), so what else could they be looking . . . for . . .

L freezes and then nearly convulses as the thought strikes him so hard it feels like an avalanche, like a waterfall, like bricks slamming into his temples and he hangs up abruptly with Whammy because . . . well, because . . .

_Crowley, _he realizes. Chicago is the last location he had for Crowley. And B had told Light he knew where Crowley was, right down to the address and—

"Oh, God," L whispers, and then lurches to his feet. He needs to move. Now.

* * *

Nearly 800 miles away, in a dimly lit apartment that smells awfully of blood, a thin blonde man with wild blue eyes paces and looks continually between a clock tick-tocking on the living room wall and a cell phone plugged into the jack in his wall. He waits, for either the time or the call, whichever comes first, because he knows what's coming, he knows what he's been promised, and he knows best of all that even if it's the last thing he does, he will destroy Light Yagami.

* * *

A/N: Ahahahahahha how's THAT for action? How's THAT for a friggin' cliffhanger? AHAHAHAHAHHA . . .

*Ahem. Okay. End of maniacal Kira-laughter. Ohhhh, sorry you guys, I know it totally, totally sucks. I KNOW. But I have been planning on writing this chapter (and the next one) for the entire duration of this story! And if you think the chapter moves to fast or you're like, "hey, I wanna know what happens with B and Light's fight or L's panic, or whatever," then TOO BAD! And I truly am sorry, I HATE cliffhangers when I'm reading other people's stories, but this story, like, demanded it, and I just couldn't refuse. Let me know! Loves to everyone who's reviewed so far; I know it's been awhile, but I never stop thinking of you all, I promise!

Okay, but seriously, who all saw that coming? I had a couple of reviews that mentioned it, and my hat's off to those people who figured that why Chicago was such an important place. I so want to hear your reactions to this chapter, guys, because it's definitely one of my favorites. So go ahead, let me have it! Angry about the cliffie? Worried about Light/L/whoever?


	14. Go

**Part 14 - Go**

**Published 10.21.10**

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* * *

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"Ohhh, m'God, I'm so fuckin' tired," Matt mumbles as he stumbles through the airport. His feet feel like lead and it is taking way too much effort to get them to move at all, much less to get them to support his entire body. Which, incidentally, also feel like lead.

"No one told you to stay awake for over 72 hours," Mello snaps at him. "And besides, you can sleep on the flight; it's a good seven or eight hours."

"Not enough," Matt groans. "Need sixteen hours. Or sixteen days . . ."

"What, and leave me to wreak havoc on the world because of the considerable sexual tension you sleeping for that long would cause? For shame, Matty. I thought you had more of a conscience than that." Mello shakes his head, disappointed.

Matt laughs weakly as they head through their gate and out towards the plane. As they settle into their seats (first class, thanks, L!), Matt glances over at Mello. "Why are we headed to Chicago, again?" he asks.

Mello rolls his eyes. "That's where B is, of course," he says.

"Why should that matter?" Matt asks. "It's L's case, not ours."

"No," Mello corrects. "L's case is finding Light. _My _case is finding B and murdering him with much pomp and circumstance because of what he did to you."

"Ah," Matt says, at last understanding. "Of course." And then his head hits the soft, downy pillow they've courteously provided him with up in first class, and he is unconscious.

Mello stares at his prone form for a moment before rolling his eyes and turning his attention to the copious amounts of chocolate they've placed on his end table.

* * *

"What the hell do you mean, there aren't any flights? We've been working at this for hours, planning and contacting agents, and now we can't get a flight? How the hell can there not be flights to Chicago?"

Whammy sighs, blinking a little at the profanity. "It's the blizzard they're having over in Chicago," he says wearily. "No one's flying out there."

"What about flying to a nearby airport?" L demands, mind whirring furiously as he paces.

"It's covering a good hundred square miles, L," Whammy says gently. "And it's moving fast, towards New York."

L stopped and took a deep breath. "The flight to Chicago will take roughly two hours, will it not?" he asks.

"If there were a flight, yes," Whammy says.

"And driving?"

"Twelve hours or so, and it would be treacherous driving, heading into an oncoming storm like that. It would probably take even longer."

"Damn it," L hisses. He climbs into his chair and stares blankly at his computer. "I finally have something to do, and I can't do it because the _weather _has decided that it's going to be difficult."

"We can still mobilize the agents down there," Whammy suggests.

L sighs. "Yes," he agrees. "But I need to be down there, Whammy. It's not going to work if he can't see me."

"I know," Whammy says. "The weather will clear up, L. Flights should be headed out in a day, maybe a little longer."

L nods, and it's a grim little gesture, because he's only agreeing since there's nothing left to argue. Not even the World's Greatest Detective can go up against the forces of nature and win. He does not, however, say what they're both thinking, which is: _We don't have a day. We may not even have a few hours. _Instead, he sits, and waits, and thinks.

* * *

When Matt wakes up, it is only because the prodding to his ribs is so damn insistent and chronic that he feels he might actually be bruising. A hissing, constant whisper of, "Matt! Matt, wake up! Wake up, Matty, you've got to wake up!" doesn't help much either.

Matt opens his eyes blearily, and gazes at the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign above him, which is lit. "Are we landing already?" he asks. Or at least, that's what he means to ask. What really comes out is something along the lines of, "Arewelaninalreay?"

Mello, fortunately, is familiar enough with Matt's utter lack of diction to recognize the inquiry for what it is, and nods. "Yeah, that's why you needed to wake up," he says.

"I can't believe it's been eight hours already," Matt mutters, moving his chair into a seated position.

"It hasn't," Mello says grimly. "We're being diverted because the weather in Chicago is absolute shit at the moment, apparently."

Matt blinks a few times, processing the information. "Well," he says slowly, "what should we do then?"

"What do you think?" Mello snaps. "We'll find someone crazy enough and desperate enough for cash to fly us out."

"Into a snowstorm, Mel?"

"Hell, yes," Mello affirms.

"Wait!" Matt says, but Mello cuts him off.

"No way, Matt. There's no way I'm missing this showdown. It might be my only chance to have a solid idea of where B's hiding, and I can't miss that."

Matt shakes his head. "No, no," he says. "It's not that. It's just that I don't think there will be a showdown, not now. If we can't get to Chicago, then neither can L."

Mello's eyes gleam with understanding. "That's right!" he exclaims, and Matt is a little worried by the triumph in his voice. "We'll have to take L with us; he's in New York, isn't he?"

"I wasn't trying to encourage your delusion that flying out in a snowstorm is a good idea," Matt says drily.

Mello shoves him a little. "And I wasn't really asking for your opinion," he says. "We've gotta go, Matt. And more important, L needs to go too. If I were him, I'd be going absolutely insane right about now."

Matt thinks for a moment. "Insaner, you mean."

"I don't think that's a word."

"Regardless."

"Yes, okay. Insaner. But you agree, right?"

Matt sighs, and nods. "Yep," he says reluctantly. "It might get me killed, but I agree."

Mello smiles, and it's the smile that makes Matt's hair on the back of his neck prickle and curl. He grimaces.

The plane touches down.

* * *

It takes a full 90 minutes for Matt and Mello to find L, catch up with everything that's happened since they got on their flight, and explain what the plan is.

The plan, in a nutshell, is this: Mello, since he had contacts in the area (read: 'since he still had some Mafia peons hanging around New York City), would get in touch with them again and persuade them through any means necessary to get him a flight to Chicago. Then, they would all get on the plane to Chicago, and hopefully they wouldn't die on the way over.

It isn't much of a plan. But it is the best hope L has at finding Light before he's murdered, or before B spirits him away to somewhere else. So frankly, he's willing to try.

Mello nods when he gets L's approval, then flips open his phone and dials a number, presumably from memory. There's a pause, and then, "Hey, Rod," Mello says, turning away from the other two.

L looks at Matt curiously, and Matt mouths, 'Peon,' to him. L manages to turn up one corner of his lips at Matt's attempt at humor.

"I need a flight," Mello is saying. "A fast one, and more importantly, one that will take me to Chicago within the hour." He pauses, and his voice cools several degrees when he speaks next. "That's hardly my problem, is it?" he says coldly. "Get me the fucking flight, Rod! I don't care what it takes. Money, threats, whatever." Another pause. "Sure, kidnap his grandmother, that'll work."

"Mello," L starts, and Mello half-turns to hold up one finger and glare over his shoulder.

"Yeah, or find a pilot strapped for cash, I don't you it doesn't matter! I don't fucking care about the details! Call me within the next 30 minutes." He hangs up, and turns to see L gaping at him. Mello shrugs and sinks into a chair.

"I don't want someone's grandmother kidnapped," L begins, a little incredulously.

"Oh, please, it's not like we're gonna hurt anybody," Mello sneers, rolling his eyes. He's still in full-on Mafia mode, and Matt desperately hopes that L doesn't try to give him any orders.

"But as far as morality goes-"

"Do I look like someone who cares about fucking morality?" Mello demands.

L takes in the head-to-toe leather and combat boots. "No," he answers.

"And do you really care what you have to do, as long as Light's okay?" Mello presses. "Face it, L, this guy's never been about justice or morality for you, or you would have had him killed years ago. So you add kidnapping to your list of shit you've had to do for him. So what?"

"Is this the reasoning you used when you had to murder and maim your way to the top ranks of the Mafia?" L asks back, quietly.

Mello stands and so does Matt. Before he can start screaming, Matt steps between the two. "Okay," he says. His back is to L, and his eyes are on Mello. "Chill, Mel. You know you're both just stressed out."

"Move," Mello snarls.

Matt does, but instead of stepping out of the way so Mello can start screaming obscenities at his long-time idol, he walks forward and grabs Mello's hand, using his considerable strength and Mello's considerable surprise to haul him out of the room and slam the door behind them.

"Mello, woah," Matt says. "Calm down. L's just worried out of his mind for Light, you know that. As we speak, Crowley could be torturing him. He could be _dead_."

Mello doesn't seem to be listening. "He's the _reason_ I even joined the fucking Mafia," he hisses, glaring at the door. "He shoved my weaknesses in my face and told me without ever saying anything, without even looking at me that I wasn't good enough for him and that I'd _never _be good enough."

"I know," Matt says gently.

"_God, _I hate him sometimes!" Mello snaps, his voice loud in the small hallway. "He rips away whatever dreams and aspirations I had and then he fucking lectures _me_ about morality? He has the gall to tell me I'm not good enough for his program, and then he looks down on me because I couldn't be just like him?"

Matt takes his hands. "I _know, _Mello," he repeats.

"You don't fucking know-" Mello begins, wrenching his hands out of Matt's grasp and raising a hand. Halfway on it's way to making contact with Matt's face, Mello's hand freezes, and he drops his arm. All the fire seems to go out of him and he slides into a heap, leaning against the wall for support. He rests his head on his knees. After a moment, Matt sits down beside him.

After a few minutes, Mello raises his head. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, ashamed.

Matt leans over and kisses the top of his head. "It's okay," he says. "Instinct, right?"

Mello laughs, and even though it's a choked, desperate kind of laughter, it makes Matt feel better to hear anyway. "Yeah," he agrees. "Something like that.

"It really is okay, Mel. I know you wouldn't really do that. Not now."

"You have this bizarre trust in me," Mello mutters. "It freaks me out sometimes."

"I can't help trusting people when I know them like I know you," Matt says, smiling. "And the fact that you buy me video games doesn't hurt," he adds as an afterthought.

Mello snorts. "You're so easy to please," he says.

"And you're so difficult," Matt counters. "We make a great pair."

Mello smiles and leans his head back against the wall.

After a moment, Matt speaks up again. "Just . . . don't let it eat at you, okay?" he appeals.

"What?" Mello asks.

"This brief return to Mafia boss," Matt clarifies. "Don't let it get to you, consume you, like it used to. Okay?"

Mello nods. "Yeah," he shrugs. "I'll try."

* * *

L pulls away from the door when silence seems to reign between the two. His chest is aching, and for a moment, he thinks that maybe he's actually having a heart attack (which would be just delightful at this point). He has to think for a moment to sort out everything he's feeling, but he finally gets it: it's guilt, and grief, and remorse. But mostly, it's jealousy. If—no, when he gets Light back, he is going to do everything in his power to have the relationship Matt and Mello have right now. The kind where honesty is blatant and even painful sometimes. The kind where showing love isn't a weakness and doesn't inspire fear and suspicion.

The kind where they build each other up, not tear each other down; where Light can just be that: Light. Not Kira or Crowley's prisoner or even Light-kun, who was L's friend back when he'd lost his memories. Just Light, and everything that name entailed. And where L got to be just L. Not the detective or L Lawliet, which Light only called him when he was angry. Just simple, gentle.

Even with nearly everything he cares about hanging in the balance of Mello's shady contacts and a great deal of luck, L still smiles. He is looking forward to that hypothetical relationship, no matter how long it takes to make it that way. He's willing to work, and after copious apologies, he hopes that Light will be too.

* * *

Twenty-seven minutes after Mello first hung-up on Rod, his cell phone rings.

He picks it up. "What?" he snaps. And after a moment, he smiles. "When do we leave?" he asks.

* * *

Everything is pale and dark in the narrow field of Light's vision. He pants, feeling his lungs stretch beyond capacity and even as he tries to push himself up into a seated position, he finds that his arms will not support him. No surprises there, he thinks grimly. He rests his face in the cheap hotel carpet and waits for the next blow . . .  
. . . which does not come. After waiting a few seconds, and then maybe as long as a minute in silence, Light chances a glance up, over his aching shoulder.

And Light says nothing, because he's already bleeding and he's pretty sure some ribs are cracked and certainly one of his fingers are broken. He breathes deep again, wincing some more as it strains the aching parts of his body (and everything in his body aches right now). For lack of anything better to do, Light continues the staring contest with B.  
Beyond is still there, standing a few feet away from him, silent and calculating. There is no hint of a smile on his lips, and Light isn't sure if he should be terrified or not.

"B?" Light finally croaks when he feels like he's sinking into those fire-red eyes. He's getting confused, staring at B this long. His hands tremble, and he notices for the first time in days. B's hands are shaking a little as well, and Light wonders if they always have and he's just never noticed.

With a little jerk, B starts forward and makes his way over to Light. He presses one foot into Light's ribs, making Light suck in a breath to keep from screaming. Light expects a kick, and feels oddly vulnerable and cheated when B just uses the leverage to turn him over onto his back. Light rolls over easily enough, then uses the momentum to curl up on his side, bringing his arms and legs in a bit. He breathes deeply; the suspense is making him feel jittery and exposed.

B crouches down lazily, not into L's position like he normally would, but down on his haunches. The position looks more natural, so Light assumes in the small part of his brain that isn't dedicated to being terrified right now that it's one of his own poses.

There's a faint smile on B's lips as he grips Light's chin and forces Light to look up at him again. Light feels chills run straight down his spine as B reaches into his pocket and extracts the switchblade from earlier and snaps it open.

"B, don't-" Light starts, and then freezes when B presses the flat of the blade to Light's lips.

"Don't make any sound unless I ask for it," B murmurs, and Light doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe. B waits for a moment, head cocked to one side, to make sure his order is obeyed. Then he nods. "Good," he whispers, and it comes out like a hiss. He pushes at Light's shoulder to make him lay flat on his back.

B's eyes are darker than Light can ever remember seeing them; the red is almost imperceptible. He begins to shiver, then shake, badly enough that the blade still pressed to his lips begins to dig in unpleasantly and a thin line of blood starts to drip down his lips and chin.

B shakes his head and pulls his knife away. "Can't have that," he says gently. He runs calloused fingers down the thin cut and brings them up to his own lips and licks delicately. B closes his eyes and shivers slightly. Light doesn't dare speak, but he does whimper softly when B leans over him and laps at the blood directly.

"Shh," B whispers, and presses the knife just under Light's left collarbone. Light stares at him, wondering what the point of all this painless knifeplay is, and then he feels cold silver and steel sink deep into the right side of his chest. He hisses in a breath through his teeth and glares at B the best he had. "Not good enough," B tells him. "Scream." And he cuts again, dragging the blade deep.

"God-dammit, B!" Light exclaims. "Get the fuck off of me!"

In one smooth motion, B flips the knife around so it's resting just under Light's eye. "What was that?" he asks. He notices Light's muscles beginning to tighten and tremble further and laughs. "Don't try it," he suggests, "unless you want to go through the rest of your short life blind."

Light, who had been preparing to fight back, slumps back down and stares up at B with what he believes must be considerable hatred in his gaze. B doesn't flinch, though his smile spreads across his face like disease.

"Now," B murmurs, "give me what I want."

"What do you want?" Light manages to grind out.

B pulls the knife away from his face (Light breathes a sigh of relief), then jams it back into his skin, which is slippery now from the blood flowing freely onto cheap hotel carpet. He begins to carve, humming cheerfully, and Light groans and shuts his eyes tightly, trying to remember how he used to deal with this back in the asylum. He's so far away from that person now, though, that it doesn't help at all.

To his shame, Light feels tears forming at the corners of his eyes and as B makes a sharp turn with the blade, they begin to fall down the sides of his face as he writhes, trying to stay as silent and still as possible (since moving makes the cutting worse). Light damns his weak, malnourished body, and he swears to himself that if he ever gets out of this, he will eat every damn day no matter how sick he feels. This is hell; being unrestrained, but unable to get his spent body to move much. "Stop it," Light gasps. B laughs and leans down to taste the tears on his cheeks.

"Almost there," B murmurs. "You taste wonderful," he tells Light confidentially, and Light wonders that he ever thought it was a good idea to run off with this psychopath.

Light is writhing, trembling, whimpering a little and clenching his teeth to keep from screaming, when B suddenly reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little white packet. Light can barely see with the tears clouding his vision, but he understands exactly what it is when B rips one side open and begins to rub the salt from the packet into the gashes carved onto his chest.

Light's back arches and his vision goes black around the edges; he's faintly aware of shrieking, "B!", and then suddenly, sensation stops and he's left with the sharp, burning sensation of dreadful injury and pain.

B is leaning back on his haunches again and grins at Light as Light's eyes find his. "There we go," B murmurs. He leans down again to taste the blood still spilling out of the injury. "Perfect."

Light is panting with the effort of trying not to sob. "What-" he gasps, "what the hell . . . was that?" He feels B's grins against his skin, and he gives a muffled scream as B nips at the cuts. For a long time, even when B pulls away, all Light can do is lay where he is, shirtless and shuddering all over from the pain. He has no energy, and the adrenaline is pumping so hard that it feels like he has jolts of electricity shooting down his arms and legs every time his heart beats.

Finally, the few endorphins he has left manage to combine to dull a little of the pain. Light begins to push himself up with trembling arms (he isn't doing a very good job), and B doesn't stop him, but he doesn't lean back either. Light finally gives up and shoves at B. "Get the . . . fuck off me . . . B," Light hisses, pushing him away.

B just laughs, but allows himself to be pushed back. "I thought we were ending our time together soon," B says. "I wanted to give you and L something to remember me by."

Light is horrified when he realizes what that means and he cranes his head to look down. Sure enough, there is a 6-inch tall 'B' carved just under his right collarbone. "You bastard," Light snarls, his body still too exhausted to attack him like he'd like to.

B shrugs, not looking terribly concerned. "You're the one who attacked me, remember, Light-kun?" he asks.

Light shudders. "I assume you have bandaged or something so I don't bleed to death?" he demands. Oh, he's talking big, but when B's eyes flash and he gazes down at Light from his position crouched over him, Light has to forcibly shut his mouth so he doesn't take back what he just said.

"Do I look like I'm the kind of person who plans ahead with bandages?" B demands, giggling now.

Light looks at him for another moment, then rolls over and shakily pushes himself up into a kneeling position, hands and knees on the floor as he catches his breath from just that little action. Damn it all, he needs food, and sleep, and exercise, and probably copious amounts of medication; he's not going to make it through any of this if he's this weak all the time.

He can't see what B is doing, so he yelps a little when B pulls him back and sets him n his lap. Light holds still for a moment, then when B starts fingering the letter on his chest, Light jerks away at the expense of the cracked ribs he's managed to sustain. He gasps in pain again.

B jerks him back and speaks directly in his ear. "Call me L, and I'll give you the bandages I've brought," he offers. "You don't even have to pretend. I just want his name."

Light presses his lips together. "I'd rather bleed to death," he snarls after a moment. B's gaze grows dark and he shoves Light away.

"All right," B says, almost amiably. "I have errands to run; why don't you get cleaned up?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Do you want to go to the bank or not?"

"With you?" Light demands? "Hell no!"

B shakes his head. "That's part of the deal," he tells Light.

"I thought you wanted to 'renegotiate'," Light sneers.

B smiles condescendingly at him and pats his head. "I'll be back in three hours," he tells him. "If you don't look less pathetic by the time I'm back, I'll give you a matching scar _inside _your abdomen. And if you aren't here by the time I get back . . ." he pauses, apparently thinking, "I think I'll find L and give him a matching scar."

"Like you could find him."

"It's funny that you're still underestimating me," B muses. "I might not be the greatest detective in the world, Light, but I am one of the very best criminals. I know where L is right now, and if you don't think that I'd risk everything to carve my letter into his skin, you're crazier than I am."

And he flashes Light a bright smile, and walks out, slamming the door.

* * *

When L, Matt, and Mello all step off the plane in Chicago (which is positively doused in snow), at least two of them consider falling to their knees and kissing the ground. One of them does.

"Matt, get up," Mello snaps, rolling his eyes. "It wasn't that bad."

L looks dubiously over his shoulder at the smoking remains of the private just they just (crash) landed in. Wisely, he chooses not to say anything.

"Are you kidding me?" Matt demands. "This whole experience has just converted me to Christendom! I figure if there is a God, he's weirdly on your side, since you _haven't fucking died yet._ I'm with you now, man! Get me a rosary, sign me up-"

"Matt!" Mello lashes out. "Shut the fuck up, you're rambling."

Matt was rambling. He shuts up.

L checks his watch. "We need to move, now," he says. "The bank is open still and we need to get there before they do."

Mello looks over his shoulder and nods at Rod, who dials a number and has a brief discussion with someone on the other line. In less than five minutes, a Bentley with darkened, bulletproof windows slides up in front of the little airport gate. Mello slides in first. L's overactive mind notes that Mello's leather and the car's match. He feels insane.

They have got to find Light.

* * *

It is afternoon when B returns. He surveys Light, who has messily stitched himself up, wrapped the injury in gauze, and is dressed smartly in the clothes B stole for him. Besides the bruise on his cheekbone, he looks like he'll fit in perfectly well at the bank.

B smiles at him. Light flinches. B's smile widens. "Ready?" he asks.

Light nods grimly. He is getting the fucking Death Note, and then he's getting out of here. Screw finding Crowley, he'll do that on his own. He's proved that he doesn't need B here; now it'll just be a matter of losing him after getting the Death Note.

B is studying his face; Light is certain he gives nothing away, but B still laughs and nods towards the door. "Let's go then," he says. This time, Light leads the way out.

* * *

"Mello, we need to move faster."

"L, I just don't have the firepower to blow up everyone in our way right now. The weather sucks, everyone's driving slow. We're moving as fast as we can. We're going to make it."

"We're going to miss them," L murmurs, but Matt notices that his eyes seem very far away. And that he seems strangely . . . calm.

* * *

"What . . . what the hell is this?"

"Let me see!"

"Get off me! B, what the hell does this mean?"

"2575 South Stewart Avenue," B reads. "I think it means it's an address, Light."

Light growls and jerks the paper away from him. "What's a piece of paper with an address on it doing in the safety deposit box my note's supposed to be in?" he demands, then pauses. "Unless . . . Misa wouldn't have left it alone in here. She'd have hidden it somewhere else in the city!" He turns and rushes out of the bank.

B follows slowly, a Cheshire grin spreading from ear to ear.

* * *

"I just saw them! I swear, it was them!"

"Matt, why the hell wouldn't they stay in the bank?"

"Just trust me, Mel. They got in a cab and headed south."

"I don't think-"

"We're headed south too, then," L announces, appearing out of nowhere. He'd gone into the bank to check things out, but found nothing. His tone is pressing, but his body language is calm, smooth. _Like he's accepted something, _Matt thinks.

Mello pauses, seeming not to notice L's strange attitude, and then climbs into the car and nods to his driver. "Right then," he says, "we move south."

* * *

Light is panting by the time he reaches the tiny apartment complex. His stitches have torn open, he knows, but he's so close now, he can taste it like success on his tongue. His cracked ribs are giving him a hell of a time, but he can barely feel them as the adrenaline pushes him up higher, further, headed up half a dozen flights of stairs, B trailing after him and grinning like a maniac, but he doesn't care, he can't care, he's almost there, he is so fucking close to achieving the one goal he's managed to make in years and he feel like collapsing but he keeps pressing, pushing, pressing until . . .

He stops. "2575," he whispers. He raises his hand to knock, then seems to think better of it. Instead he tries the doorknob, which is . . . open? He turns it, and pushes the door inward and steps onto the threshold of the dark apartment.

He takes a step in, barely able to breathe.

He reaches for the lights—he can't see anything, even though it's daytime. He supposes that it is horrible weather right now, maybe that's why.

He hits the light switch, and then freezes. All the color sinks out of his already pallid face, and he narrowly managed to grab the nearest piece of furniture so he won't fall to his knees.

And B, who has just come up behind him, peers over his shoulder, cocks his head to one side and announces, "Well, that's not what I had planned at all."

* * *

A/N: So you like? Oh, also, do tell me if I've made any mistakes; I just wrote the last bit in one go and I'm too exhausted to beta, so if you spot anything that should be there, lemme know! Anyways. The end of this chapter is something I've been planning on writing since chapter 4 or so! Well, and the next chapter. Hot DAMN it's going to be awesome! I'm truly sorry for the cliffhanger, but I have been updating sooner than usual, ne? It was only a month since I posted last time! I'm on a roll! WOO!

Okay, that was sarcasm. But seriously, you guys have GOT to tell me what you think is going on right now! Keep in mind: there are only probably going to be 2-3 more chapters, so things are starting to wrap up. Let me know what the hell you think is going on! I probably won't let you know if you're right, but I'll tell you what; if you wrap up all the loose ends in a review or PM, I'll probably do something along the lines of writing a story with a plot bunny of your choosing once this story's done! XD


	15. Break

**Part 15 - Break**

A/N: I don't usually put these at the top of my chapters, but I just read through what I've written and realized that some may find it a bit . . . disturbing. Creepy. It has gore, and lots of it. And also . . . just . . . generally creepiness. I can't say anymore without ruining it, but suffice to say that if you are squeamish, you might not like this.**  
**

**

* * *

**

_He hits the light switch, and then freezes. All the color drains out of his already pallid face, and he narrowly manages to grab the nearest piece of furniture so he won't fall to his knees. His head spins with assumptions and theories, each one as improbable as the next, and a blackness that he didn't even know he still possessed claws its way up from his belly and begins constricting around his throat. He cannot speak, or breathe, and even if he could he would not want to because there is . . . there is no sense to this, it is senseless and he is not sure what he's supposed to feel, or if he's supposed to feel anything at all. _

_ And B, who has just come up behind him, peers over his shoulder, cocks his head to one side and announces, "Well, that's not what I had planned at all." _

His knees are weak and they tremble as Light tries to keep himself upright. He is gripping the arm of the chair so hard he can feel the blood draining out of his knuckles and fingers and his arm is becoming numb, quickly. His legs are jelly and they barely support him, bending hard at the knees and waist. He works hard to stay upright, to stay in control, but then B claps him on the shoulder and down he goes, to his knees, and stays there.

He watches with wide, frightened eyes—eyes of children afraid of the dark or of monsters under the bed—as B walks casually into the room and towards the body that is lying face up on the stained linoleum. Light's mouth, like the corpse's, is wide open. He grabs desperately at the fraying arm of the chair again, trying to hold onto something, trying to make sure his world and himself are corporeal. He still stares—he does not think he has blinked once, and he's not sure if he even can—as B reaches the body and kneels beside it.

B reaches out spindly fingers and they dart irreverently across the corpse's face, into the wide open mouth. He rests his hands on the chest and seems to ponder something; then lifts one of the body's arms and watches as it falls, boneless and limp, to the floor. "No rigor mortis yet," he says speculatively, as Light just stares on in terror and amazement. "Means he can't have been dead for more than an hour . . . means the blood won't have congealed in his veins yet. That should be . . . interesting." And he licks his lips.

There is a soft noise in the otherwise silent room as Light swallows a scream that's been building up in his chest for a while, he thinks at least since they left the bank, or maybe the last few days—hell, he thinks it's been building up for the last few years and still he pushes it down, backs away, hopes it won't rattle its cage again. The arm of the chair creaks dangerously under his iron grip and he draws a shaky breath (his first since entering the apartment?).

In any case, the soft noises seem to snap B out of whatever trance or haze he's in, and he suddenly jerks his head up and locks eyes with Light. _He is dangerous_, Light thinks. _He could kill me._

"What's the matter, Light?" B asks, and the way he says Light's name, it's a curse and an invitation and a threat all at once. "Never seen a dead man before?"

Light swallows another noise—this one a whimper, as his eyes flicker from B to the corpse that's rapidly cooling on the ground. He shakes his head, or nods his head, he's not sure. All he knows is that he starts moving and then he can't stop; he can't stop shaking and trembling and he falls to all fours and just _shudders, _the tremors running through him and over him and the air around him feels like it's vibrating too, all the way down into his lungs and his bloodstream.

B stands and stalks slowly over to him, feet moving soundlessly across the floor and eyes fixed on him and him only. He reaches Light and holds out a hand. "Come on," he suggests, "come over here. It's not like he's going to bite." And B laughs.

Light flinches at the laughter but the sound of it shattering the restless silence and the tactile sensation of B's fingers in his hair bring him back down and with a sound that's more scream than it is sigh, he pulls himself up to his knees again and shuffles slowly, unwillingly over to the body of Dr. Matthias Crowley. And he kneels where he is. And he just stares.

His eyes absorb the sight of the frightened grimace the doctor must have worn in his last moments. He sees the old clothing and the dirt and grime under fingernails. He sees how the doctor has lost weight, how he is bone and strangely paperlike skin only, no muscle, no organs, no heart in there. He sees all this, but what he does not see is how Crowley died. He looks back at B, who is simply watching him and doesn't say a word.

Light sees it all, and he is confused, but another part of him sees nothing at all. That part is blind and fumbling—it is the part that still remembers what he came here to do, that still wants the Death Note and his memories, that still hates L with everything he has left in himself. It's the part that also hates Crowley and was starving, seething, screaming to feel his blood, taste his blood, murder him coldly with weapons or the Death Note or his own two hands. It is all of everything that has happened to him, and it is finally full. And it grows, and moves closer to his heart.

Crowley, his tormentor, his terror, his every dark corner and every flickering shadow, his near-constant companion for years, lies on the floor in front of him, defeated. This fact cannot be reconciled in his mind. He feels very distant from the scene. He feels as though he just walked in on the scene of a movie, and soon the director will say, "Cut! Great job, everyone, you can go home," and he would go home and sleep the sound, dreamless sleep of someone who'd never killed before.

Crowley . . . Crowley is nothing. He is less than nothing. He is a hunk of human flesh laid out on the ground before them, not yet rotting but soon he will be. He held ultimate power over Light for five years, and now he is nothing. His hands, smooth and thin, which used to terrify Light so, are just ordinary, dead hands now. His mind, a formidable, cruel, sharp thing, is only CSF and gray matter now; just a normal dead brain now.

He will never move again. Or speak again. Or breathe, or walk, or touch. He cannot see now, and he never will again. Light simply stares. Because while it's true that in death, Crowley cannot ever hurt him again . . .

. . . it also means that Light will never be able to hut Crowley. He will never have his revenge, he will never hear the doctor scream or taste his panic and his pain and his terror. He will never face this unimaginable fear and he can never, never gain redemption. The scales of justice will never be balanced again—always, they will lean in favor of Dr. Matthias Crowley, who is far, far away from Light now, out of his hands and out of his control. Crowley, who did all he could to Light, who twisted and spun and broke . . . and now Light will never be able to repay the favor.

And so Light screams, honest and earnestly this time. He screams, the wordless fury and just . . . the _hurt_ so present in the sound that he is surprised it doesn't shatter him with the raw honesty and grief. He screams, and curls in on himself because this is it, he failed and there is nothing left, there is nothing more. He has failed, and yet . . . at the same time he is so _relieved_, so so so glad he never has to face the doctor again, so glad that terror is gone; and he is disgusted with himself at the relief, ashamed he should be so weak that he would be glad his greatest enemy is gone not by his own hands. He screams and screams and the air he sucks in for breath tastes sweet and clear and the purity of it—the freedom from terror in it—is so heady and real that he gags in disgust and retches and then screams again, gripping his hair tight in his hands just to have something to hold onto.

He's been drowning all this time and he never knew, he _never knew_, how could he not feel himself filling up with the fear? And now he's broken the surface and he's gasping for breath and suddenly he's _laughing _of all things, because he realizes he's afraid of drowning, but he's also afraid of breathing too.

He is a _failure_, and he wonders why he tries so hard to change what is obviously his fate. He wonders where his hopeless, stupid motivation comes from and he doesn't know but when he finds the place he will tamp down on it and burn it until there is no hope left. He has failed, he is a failure, and now all of this, leaving L and getting fucked over by B and going through the withdrawals from medication he hated to death anyway and almost dying 1,000 miles away from home . . . _it is all for nothing. _

Isn't it?

He's laughing and he thinks he might be screaming too, but at least there are no tears, there is no weakness in his cold, cold eyes as they stare all the while at the doctor in front of him. He doesn't stop until he feels B's hand on his shoulder and then he snaps, spins around and moves away from him, shivering and clutching his chest like there is a monster in the room (and perhaps there is, but who's to say it isn't him?).

B doesn't say anything, he just observes Light with a head cocked to one side and restless little bird fingers. Light stares back, too overwhelmed to make a sound.

After a moment of thought, B turns and walks into the kitchen. With him gone, Light nears the doctor again, looking at his face, finding evidence of new lines, taking note of how pale and wan he is. He is so absorbed that he jumps when B kneels next to him and presses something cool and smooth into his palm.

Light can hardly tear his eyes away from Crowley, but he manages and he looks into B's eyes with the question in his own eyes—and then he realizes what B has handed him and he looks down at the sharp carving knife in his left hand. The blade is long, not serrated, and it is whisper-silence clean and steel and cold. It gleams in greasy fluorescent lighting. Light shivers in response.

He looks back up at B uncomprehendingly. He is emotionally drained now, and thinks tiredly that he would like nothing more than to throw himself out the window. "What's this for?" he asks dully, barely mustering up the energy to form the words.

B's grin reappears and stretches impossibly at the corners. "This," B explains, and raises his own blade with both hands.

* * *

"Where the hell are they?" Mello mutters darkly. "They can't have gone too far; traffic is nearly at a standstill with the snow." He keeps his eyes wide as the scour the streets and sidewalks they're slowly cruising.

L turns to Matt. "Matt, is your program picking up anything?" he asks quietly.

Matt glances back down at the netbook resting in his lap, "No," he says, brow furrowing at the answer he has to give. His fingers move across the keys for a moment. "Still nothing." He pauses, then continues, "I mean, this is just a small extension of my supercomputer back in England. It's not nearly fast enough to keep up with all the images, so it'll be a bit delayed as it gets the images from the original program."

L says nothing for a moment, then he blinks twice—seemingly in affirmation or acceptance of this news—then nods slowly. "I understand," he says clearly, and Matt frowns at the steady tone. Is it shock, maybe? Suppression? Dissociation?

He rests a hand on L's shoulder lightly, and L does not react other than to raise his dark, fathomless eyes to meet Matt's clear green ones. "Are you okay?" Matt asks.

L nods again. He does not hesitate. "Yes," he says, "everything's going to b fine."

"That's not what I asked," Matt presses. "Are you okay?"

L drops his eyes. "Yes," he lies. "I'm okay."

Matt frowns at the lie, but decides not to call him out on it just yet. He sighs and checks his computer again. "Okay," he says, "the images from the bank now are finally coming through here."

"Really?" L asks, his curiosity piqued. "Video too?"

Matt pauses and taps the keys. "Yep," he says, offering the little computer to L while bringing out his pack of cigarettes and tapping it once or twice. The sound immediately alerts Mello, who has kicked the driver out long since and is driving himself. He glares over his shoulder. "Not in this car!" he snaps.

"Can I roll down the window, then?" Matt asks.

"It's below freezing outside, Matt, plus we're in the middle of a fucking blizzard. I don't know; what do you think? Should we roll down the windows and go cruising?"

Matt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. It is not a common gesture for him, but the headaches are starting up since he wasn't allowed to smoke on the plane and now he's gone like 24 hours or something horrible without cigarettes and he's pretty sure he's going to die.

"Gimme a break, Mel," he wheedles. "I need to smoke."

"It's a nasty habit and you need to break it anyway," Mello snaps back. "This can be day one. Let's see how far you get. Those things'll kill you, you know."

"Mello, if I thought I was going to live long enough to die of something besides gunfire or maybe an explosion, then I'd worry about lung cancer or emphysema. As it is, I'm your best friend and constant companion. It's a miracle we're both still here and in one piece."

Unconsciously, Mello fingers the scar on his face, then grimaces as he realizes what he's doing. Matt leans forward, over the seat and kisses the scar. "I like it," he tells him. "It makes you look even more badass than you already do."

Mello snorts and waves him away. "Don't distract the driver," he tells him, but Matt can see the tiny smile Mello has on in the rearview mirror.

L, in the meantime, fiddles with the tiny netbook in front of him. In the back of his mind, he is irritated that the World's Greatest Detective has been reduced to scouring a 10" screen for details or clues, but he supposes he's going to have to work with what he's got in this case. He taps the play button on the first video. There's no sound, but they're in such a public area that it wouldn't have mattered anyway; he wouldn't have been able to hear them.

He watches closely as the miniature figures of Light and B stride into the little bank. Light walks slightly behind B, eyes jumping from one exit to the next. He reminds L of a caged animal, trapped and frightened and dangerous. B walks calmly, steadily; he's adopted another one of his facades.

The image on the screen isn't as clear as he'd like it to be, especially zoomed in on the pair, but he can see them well enough to see how Light draws away from B, how he tucks his arms in tight to his sides and chest and how he ducks his head whenever anyone in the bank tries to make eye contact. L notices a slight limp, but he can't be sure that Light didn't have it earlier, in the gas station. He can also see that Light is taking very shallow breaths, and at first he thinks that it's because he's hyperventilating, but no, that's not it. His breathing is at normal intervals, it just doesn't move his chest much, suggesting pain and injury to his ribs or the skin on his chest.

Light shuffles alongside B, taking smaller steps than his counterpart and wincing slightly every time his right foot touches the floor. _Broken toes_, L thinks distantly.

When Light turns his face so that it is towards the camera L is angry but not surprised to see the red marks on his neck and cheek that L can tell will soon turn into angry black and blue bruises. And though he is worried about it and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from getting too emotional, he still also breathes a little sigh of relief. Because even though Light is in pain, he looks so much _better_ than he did since L saw the last video of him.

Light has obviously gotten into a fight—almost certainly with B—but he has also obviously gained weight in the past few days. That means he must have been indoors, eating well, thank God. His cheeks are flushed, not the pallid, hollow things L saw last time. And Light is clean, with clean clothes on, which L knows must make him feel much better about the world as a whole, if his past habits are anything to go by.

But most of all, more that the physical things L could clearly detail and list for anyone who asked, L can just tell, he can just see it; from years of dealing with Light, living with him and drawing him out of his madness, L can see that the hollow, empty look Light had had only days ago is gone.

And so L sighs, partly in frustration, partly in relief, because if he can't have Light here, right now, at least he knows Light is healthier and farther away from death's door.

On the video, Light steps slowly and in a careful, delicate sort of away, with a look of long-suffering and deep seated resistance and resentment that L might expect from someone as stubborn as Light. (And on a side note, L also notes the similarity between Light and himself, and thinks distantly that they must be the two most stubborn people on the planet, so why wouldn't they be perfect for each other?)

He returns his attention to the video and watches as, after they disappear into a safe, they exit after only a very short time. A visibly agitated Light leads the way this time, seemingly oblivious to the pain he'd been suffering just moments before. He strides cleanly out the door, not even pausing to take a breath before he's out in a snowstorm.

L's breath catches as he sees a glimpse of B's expression as he follows Light coolly out the door. Although B keeps a respectable distance from Light, and says nothing as far as L can tell, it is the smile that catches L's eye. He is used to B's cruel, ironic grins, and he'd though he was immune to the other expressions he was capable of. But now B is smiling like a devil; the expression curls unpleasantly at the edges, folding in on itself like fine paper. And though L can tell he is trying to restrain himself, white teeth still gleam as he bites slowly on his lower lip.

Then, the two of them are out the door and L cannot see any more.

L looks up and meets Matt's gaze. His eyes are wide and empty, and he can see that Matt is a little concerned by his expression.

"Are you all right?" Matt asks. "What happened in the video?"

L seems to be at a loss for words, or maybe he doesn't hear or just doesn't answer because he turns his head to stare at the scenery that's crawling by.

Matt also turns and looks out the window. His overly active mind takes note of Mello's fidgeting as he drives, and Matt realizes that while he hasn't any cigarettes recently, Mello hasn't had any chocolate _all day_. He's going to be a terror when he comes down from the high he gets from being Mafia Boss Extraordinaire.

Matt is a bit startled when L speaks. "Nothing happened," is what he says. "They went in, stopped at a safety deposit box, then rushed out. I didn't see if they have a Death Note."

Matt nods. He doesn't know what to say to that, because when L doesn't know something, it's pretty hard to offer your own two cents.

It is quiet again for another moment as they all watch street after street pass by. They are just driving aimlessly now, hoping to catch a break, but Matt knows that B is smarter than that. He'll know he has L and God knows who else on his tail, and he'll do all he can to shake them. It's a miracle they caught a glimpse of them at the bank.

L startles him again by speaking aloud. His forehead still rests on the rapidly fogging glass of his window, and he doesn't look up as he murmurs, "I'm a coward."

"For God's sake L, you are not-"

"I'm a coward, and I'm selfish, and I'm a cheating excuse for a human being," L interrupts, his voice still quite calm.

Matt thinks for a moment before he answers this time. "Why?" he finally asks.

L closes his eyes and Matt can see in the glass' reflection the quiet despair on his face. "Because I cannot live without him," L finally says. "I will not."

Matt's lips turn up in a wry, unamused grin. "If that's the case, L," he says, "then at least you're a coward in good company."

L finally turns at that and looks at Matt, a mildly curious expression clouding his earlier one of grief. Matt is glad to have made that change.

Matt gestures to Mello and then to himself. "If you're right," he explains, "then we're all selfish."

L gives him a good approximation of a smile after a few moment's thought, then the and Matt both start a little as Mello barks from the front seat, "Yeah, okay, join the fucking club, we've got jackets. Now, if you two little _girls_ are done talking about your feelings, I'd like to get back to tracking down a couple of serial killers. That is, if that's _okay_ with the both of you?"

Matt smiles a little and rolls his eyes. "Sure, Mel," he says drily, "that'd be great except that we have nothing to go on except a vague notion that they headed south when they left the bank. No more video or images have come through, which means they're either still in a cab or they're somewhere private, hiding out. We're just shooting in the dark here."  
"Fine," Mello mutters, clearly displeased with the idea that he probably won't get to murder someone within the immediate future. "We can't see anything in this goddamned blizzard anyway."

"Pull over then," L directs. "We'll stay nearby until we have more information."

* * *

Light flinches and drops his knife as B brings his down again, tearing into Crowley's still cooling flesh.

"Wha-what the hell are you doing?" Light demands, finally finding his voice after getting over the immediate shock. B stabs Crowley's body, and the mess finally reaches Light, who shudders at the blood on his clothes and on his hands.

"Making a mess," B tells him, grinning hungrily at him. "Join in, will you?"

Light recoils, but doesn't take his eyes off of the gruesome, grisly scene before him. He is horrified and sickened and he leans away from B; but he still feels compelled to stay, and the black emptiness in his chest and in his throat spreads and a small part of him—maybe more than a small part—starts to grin madly at the senseless blood. The smell of it—the taste of the air as Light flicks out his tongue and runs it over his bottom lip—it's like it's vitality itself.

He grimaces and tries to push it away but it comes surging back like a wave, crashing over him and drowning him. He presses cold fingers against his temples hard to drive out the noise that's started up in his mind again. Not distinct voices, but a kind of high-pitched white noise and murmuring that starts drowning out and consuming the rest of his mind, the rest of himself. He closes his eyes tight and tries not to hear the shrieking that's only just begun in his mind.

B grins even more, red eyes glittering in the low light, and something about that moment—maybe the crimson already staining his white, white teeth or the shadows veiling his expression just enough, or maybe his cold white fingers that grasp Light's wrist tightly as Light kneels, frozen, on the other side of the body from him—and how when B has his hand he plunges the fingers into the one of the hot red gashes on Crowley's chest . . .

It makes Light flinch and freeze and remember and, "shinigami," he whispers; and B's teeth and tongue are gentle as he raises Light's hand to his mouth and laps at them.

"If you like," B murmurs carelessly, his eyes hooded; and to Light, it seems like all the lights in the already-dark apartment have dimmed and the howling of the wind outside and hail striking the windows is tremendous and frightening and the screaming in his head rises to a fever pitch and he grips his head and presses, hard, trying to get it out-

-and he is falling, falling, and the last thing he knows before darkness claims him is B laughing and laughing, pressing the handle of the other knife into his hand and as Light's fingers curl around it slowly, mechanically, B whispers, "See, I _told _you you weren't better."

* * *

The next Light knows of the lit and sensible world around him are bright lights and grabbing, rough hands and black masks with no eyes and he flinches and might start screaming again if he wasn't too afraid; there is a whirring, a clicking sound and as Light comes around, back to reality, the only thing he has time to think of it, _that's the sound of a taser_, before he's hit by 1,500 volts of electricity and the darkness closes over him again.

* * *

A/N: WOO quick update! Well, it's quick for me, anyway! See, I didn't leave you guys hanging for too long. This-this chapter right here is what I've been waiting for write for so long. I mean, there are some other parts I want to write as well later in the story, but hot DAMN I'm excited for this. And for the next one! It's all pretty much intense stuff from here on out.

So, yes. Please tell me what you think of my humble little magnum opus. And if there are any questions-and I think there will be, feel free to ask. I promise I'll be better about replying!

Thanks thanks thanks!


	16. Revelation

**Part 16 - Revelation**

**Posted 12/23/10**

_Light. _

_ Liiiiiiiight . . . _

_ Light!_

"Good Lord, what?" he demands, eyes flying open and fists clenching. He is bristling, nearly snarling from the pounding pain behind his eyes and aching exhaustion in his bones, but it fades away when the light catches his eyes and he sees where he is.

Or, rather, where he isn't.

Or—but wait, where had he been? He doesn't know where he is now, that is certainly true. But he can't . . . he can't quite remember, can't quite grasp the memories that slip and dart through his mind like minnows through outstretched fingers.

He knows . . . he knows there was Chicago. Right? Or was there? He thinks so, he remembers the alleyway he'd spent a day or two (or more? Or just a few hours?) in, if only very vaguely. He remembers the gas station bathroom—the cracked silver mirror and the cool water on his numb fingers. He remembers the taste of food for the first time in a long time, remembers the coffee he'd bought and drank like it was the nectar of the gods.

He remembers . . . he remembers after, he thinks. His brow furrows as he realizes that he should be more focused on the world around him, maybe. But then he shakes his head and, "No," he mutters. The room is still spinning around him, even though he's made no attempt to sit up. And the walls and lights are so dizzy-sweet with color and blurry, shaded shapes that his head pounds harder when he tries to focus.

He tries to raise a hand to brush hair out of his eyes—not to see, but because it's gotten long and it tickles—but it does not move and his eyes are useless, they tell him nothing when he glances down. He can hear nothing, but when he tries to move his arms and legs he feels smooth leather against his skin and he isn't sure what it means and—

B! And Crowley! He remembers, he remembers! His eyes widen in sudden understanding and then flashes of hot blood and B's tongue sweep over him and he jerks his head to the side, eyes closing involuntarily then flying open again as he begins to shiver-shake-shudder his way towards an understanding, towards a remembrance, and now he's clawing at the sides of the deep, dark pit that's swallowing him whole and he's shouting something, he knows he is but whatever it is, it can't be—but he doesn't want to remember, just leave him alone-

_Just leave me alone!_

And Crowley's warm blood spatters again across his face and he's grinning and suddenly-

It is dark.

* * *

Light wakes again, slower this time, and when his lids flutter open he knows instinctively that it's been at least 24 hours since he last knew consciousness—though how he couldn't say how since he really has no way of telling.

He is very still, and for all outward appearances, he supposes that he must look at-peace. In reality, though, Light doesn't want to risk disturbing the memories that dragged him under last time; so he lays quite still and blinks and breathes at very careful intervals as he shoves every uncomfortable sensation and memory towards the back of his mind.

Light reaches out, closing his eyes and inhaling as he reaches for something steady and strong inside of him, anything that will just let him breathe—because he knows that there are good and bad parts to Crowley's death (and don't even _think _that right now, it's too much), but he cannot sort through it, not right now, not like this, when he doesn't even know when or where he is and he is scared and alone again.

So he takes a long moment and finally pushes the black expanse of Chicago and B stays safely in the penumbra of his grey matter. This leaves him free to actually assess the situation he's currently in, instead of dwelling in the past. That means that before anything else, he has got to figure out where the hell he is and if he needs to get out or not. Based on his means of getting here—that is, tased by faceless strangers after a major psychotic break—he's guessing that wherever he is, conditions are going to be unfavorable.

With some effort, Light blinks a few times and then raises his head as far as it will go and examines the room around him.

The first thing that he notices is that it is small and obviously meant to hold prisoners. The door is corrugated steel and iron (Light has seen doors like that back in the asylum), and the single small window's shutters are tightly closed. Even if they weren't, Light can see the metal mesh covering the glass. No possibility of opening it, then.

Still—why on earth would he want to open the window? To escape? Light laughs aloud at that. He really knows nothing about his current situation, he can't tell anything except he's tied to a relatively comfortable bed in a white room he's never seen before with a surveillance camera blinking in the corner. There are no decorations, nothing to suggest personality; there's a single light in the ceiling and the bed is the only piece of furniture he can see. Cement seals the floor and he cringes a little, thinking of torn fingernails and scraped hands and arms in Crowley's asylum-

And then that makes him think of Crowley himself, lying dead and torn on the grey linoleum and blood staining everything everywhere, his hands and face and-

With a shuddering gasp, he pulls himself away from the memory and forces and uneasy laugh, which catches like flames on dry tinder and he finds himself genuinely laughing, softly and bitterly.

He is lost again, but this time even more than before, because he could be in Chicago or Kathmandu and he'd have no idea—and more importantly, he has no idea who brought him here.

And yet . . . yet, he feels very casual, very relaxed about it all.

His brow furrows as he tries to figure that one out (because figuring that out is so much more appealing than understanding what happened with B and Crowley and just . . . everything on this trip)—what in God's name? He has to think about it, but he gets it when he sees the pale blue fluid being fed intravenously into his left arm.

Mood stabilizers. Tranquilizers. Probably some benzos in his system, too, since he feels like he's floating, though those are only oral. Maybe some anti-psychotics. Light licks his lips, assessing how he's feeling, how clearly he can see, how easily he can breathe. Amulsipride, then, or something like it. He'll have been here for awhile, on the drugs for awhile if it's already taking effect.

Or . . . maybe it's his body responding to the drugs after going so long without its fix. _That's probably it_, he thinks distantly. _I'm probably just so sensitive to it by now. My body's been begging for it for a few weeks now. _

And he was. The drugs slide through his system like soothing salve or aloe, and he really finds it easier to breathe, easier to think. A small part of his mind is disgusted by the easiness with which he accepts this help, but the rest of him tells the other part to shut the fuck up and get with the program, this is about survival, not pride.

With that thought, Light decides to break the silence of the room, since he has been awake for awhile yet nothing has happened. He suspects that whoever's watching him is waiting for him to make the first move.

"Thanks for the drugs," he says in English to no one in particular. The camera on the wall is still blinking at him though, so he feels like whoever's there, they'll eventually get the message.

He is not at all prepared for what happens next, and consequently nearly jumps out of his skin when a voice says, "You're welcome."

Light looks around for a moment, but can find no speakers. They must be somewhere he can't see—which is a lot of the room, come to think of it. "Who—where are you?"

"In a room far enough away to be safe but close enough to prevent you from escaping," the monotone voice tells him. It is a smooth, quiet voice, and one that brooks no argument.

"Why would I be escaping?" Light asks, genuinely curious now. The voice is soft, yes, but it is also quiet steel. "Where am I?"

"In prison."

Light sweeps the room with his eyes once more before answering. "This is awfully nice for a prison," he decides. "What sort of a prison secures its inmates with leather straps to comfy beds, anyway?"

"One for the criminally insane," the voice clarifies, sounding a bit bored. Light gets the feeling that whoever's talking to him is just waiting for his questions to be over.

Light laughs, and even though it was earnest at first, eventually it turns harsh and joyless. "What," he chokes, "again?"

"Where were you before?"

Light swallows the rest of the laughter before he's hysterical and finally realizes, "This is an interrogation. Isn't it?"

"Of course." There is just a touch of dry humor in the voice, as though the person speaking is amused that Light would even ask something like that.

Light sighs and rests his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes for a moment. So that's the game, is it? He's playing with more clueless police officers and detectives. A small piece of him that he'd thought was long since dead grins and thinks, _This could be fun._

"I should probably warn you now," the voice says casually, "that I won't be letting you sleep till I get some answers."

Light's eyes snap open and he gives the camera a vicious grin. "I wasn't sleeping," he says softly. "I was getting ready."

"Ready?" There is mild curiosity in the voice now. "For the interrogation?"

"Mm-hmm," Light responds. "I've played this game plenty of times before."

"Game." The voice is not amused now. Light rather suspects he is irritating someone, and he grins again.

"Yes," he says. "Here's how we play: you ask questions, I have to give an answer to all of them. It's up to you to figure out when I'm lying."

"I should probably warn you that I've played this 'game' a fair few times myself," the voice says, and it's back to its typical monotone.

"We might be evenly matched, then," Light says, sounding delighted. Secretly, he thinks, _I doubt that._ "Okay, go ahead."

"Are you really insane?"

"Yes. That was easy. Next?"

"Then why are you acting so sane?"

"That I don't have a problem telling you, since I don't care about that secret. I'll tell the truth here—it's like a free answer. It's because I haven't had the medication in a long time. I'm sure I've got an endorphin high right now, and the Amulsipride you're giving me helps encourage amnesia, so it's easy to focus on right now, instead of getting overwhelmed by memories."

"What memories?"

"All sorts. Bad ones."

"What memories in particular?"

"Okay, okay. I'll give you a few. I'm a murderer, so that accounts for most of it, though it's not what I'm most sorry for."

"And what are you most sorry for?" The voice sounds bored now, and Light wonders if the other person really is, or if it's fake.

"Abandoning a three-year-old child," he says in answer to the question. He wonders if they'll buy it.

"Where did you leave her?" Seems like it.

"Back in Chicago. I think. She's locked in an apartment there—or maybe it's back in our apartment in Springsville. Sorry, I can't—it's all jumbled. The Amulsipride."

"I see. And why are you sorry to have left her?"

"Last I saw her, she was bleeding to death on the nice Indian rug Mother got us as a wedding present."

"Where is your wife, then?"

"Not wife; I'm gay."

"Duly noted." Light grins at the sarcasm. "Where is your partner in this whole little scenario, then?"

"He's probably gone back to England, I'd imagine. He's been chasing me and Sylvia all over the world for some time now, and I sincerely hope he's gotten sick of it—of me, by now."

"You're from England, then?"

"No, he is. I'm from the U.S."

"How did you meet?"

"His line of work brought him to my country and we hit it off right away."

"And you adopted your daughter, Sylvia?"

"No, she's my sister's, she's my niece. We were taking care of her while my sister and her husband were touring Europe."

"So what happened?"

"I sort of lost it," Light tells the voice with an apologetic grin. "I met up with an old friend from my days in the psychiatric ward and the two of us have never been a great combination."

"So the fact that you are a murder is because you killed Sylvia?"  
"No. I killed a lot more people than that. How else would I wind up in a psychiatric ward?"

"You don't sound very sorry about any of this."

"There are some things I'm very sorry for, but the things we're talking about aren't any of them."

"Do any of those things involve a Dr. Matthias Crowley?"

"Who?"

"Dr. Crowley."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Of Crowley's Institute for the Criminally Insane."

"Nope, sorry."

"The man whose blood you were drenched in when my men found and tased you?"

Light, for the first time in the exchange, slips a little and his eyes darken.

"Ah, so you do feel."

Light turns his head to the side and closes his eyes for a moment. "I'm tired of this game," he says. "Let's play something else."

"How old are you?"

"24."

"You're a very good liar. What else do you want to play?"

"Thank you. How about chess?"

"I can't go in there, and I have no board."

"You could come in, you're just scared of me. And who said anything about a board? Pawn to E3."

"I'm not scared of you; I just don't make a habit of exposing my identity to murderers. Pawn to E5."

"So you believe the part about me being a murderer? Knight to C3." Light closes his eyes and rests his head. With just a few modifications, this could be his bedroom back in England, and that voice could be L's. How nice . . . he smiles a little to himself.

"After the mess you made with Crowley, it would be stupid of me not to. Pawn to H5."

"You're good at this. Had much practice?"

"Yes, and don't avoid the subject of Crowley."

Light snarls and raises his head again to look at the camera. "If you believe nothing else I've said, you can trust this: no matter what I did to him, he deserved that and so much more," he snaps, his face twisted in rage. "I didn't even get to kill him."

"No?" the voice is amused and it infuriates Light more.

"No, you little fuck—he was dead when I got there!"

The injustice and hopelessness he'd felt back then comes rushing in when he admits this, and Light finds himself choking on the rage and helplessness. Crowley did the one thing he could have to escape Light—die. He went to the one place Light would not go to find him.

Light doesn't realize he's screaming until he sees his door open and feels the prickly sensation spread through his veins and the tranquilizer hits his brain and he sleeps.

* * *

When he wakes next, the room is dim, so he assumes it's nighttime, or at least time for him to be sleeping. He finds his jovial mood from earlier gone, and it's been replaced by a huge, heavy weight that drags on him and presses hard on his chest. The sensation is like guilt, only more so. He is exhausted. He whimpers a little as he realizes that he wants L.

"Don't do that," he whispers to the camera.

"Don't get hysterical, then," comes the snappy reply. Light is surprised, since he'd expected no response.

"I didn't mean to—didn't want to."

"You were just remembering Crowley, is that right?"

"Don't—don't talk to me about him. I don't want to talk about him."

"Oh, but he's all I want to talk about," the voice tells him, and Light sighs again and turns his face away from the camera.

"What's going to happen to me?" Light asks quietly.

"You'll stand trial for the murders you've committed and then with any luck, you'll be executed."

There is a pause and then, "Murders?" Light asks in a quiet voice. "I didn't kill him."

"You are lying."

"I wish I weren't. I would have killed him if he'd been alive—I don't know what happened. I was so close, and I'd risked everything . . ."

"If you'll just give me a confession, then we can get on with the trial."

"But I didn't kill him," Light repeats tiredly. "Wait—aren't we in America?"

"Probably."

"Then aren't I supposed to get a phone call? A lawyer? A summation of the charges brought against me?" Light is tired, yes, but his mind is finally clear and balanced enough to realize this. _Thank you, Powers that Be, for drugs_, he thinks fervently.

"Yes, you are."

"Well, give me them, then."

"Who will you call?"

Light immediately thinks of L, of the cell number he'd been given to memorize in the unlikely scenario that they'd be separated. He laughs—sort of sobs, really—a little, then shakes his head. "No one," he says slowly. "I'll call no one."

"Then give me your name and I'll put you in the system and get you a lawyer."

Light rolls a little (as much as he can) and faces the camera. A softly triumphant grin spreads across his face like a disease and his eyes light with understanding. "So _that's_ what it is, then," he says.

"What?" The voice is annoyed with him.

"That's what you've been after this whole time. My name, wasn't it? I didn't have any I.D. on me, did I?"

"No, but it's just a matter of time until we find who you are," the voice reassures him.

Light doesn't reply for a moment and then finally, "No," he says slowly. "You won't. You've had time—days, weeks, longer than I know, I'm willing to bet. You've had a long time, but my fingerprints don't show up in the system at all, do they? Not in any system in any country. And my picture—you can't find my image anywhere, can you? You can't find any relatives or friends. You have no idea who I am, do you?"

"Not yet," the voice snaps, and Light can tell he's hit a nerve—perhaps _the_ nerve, the whole way he's going to live through this. Because if they can't identify him, they can't properly charge him, can they?

"You never will," Light states calmly. "I will never give you my name—my real one. And you will never be able to find me."

"Then you'll die nameless," the voice warns.

"Even if that's true—and I very much doubt it—dying nameless is better than dying with my true name still attached, as far as I'm concerned," Light says, and then he lays his head down, closes his eyes, and refuses to say anymore.

* * *

Days pass. Light discovers that he is, in fact, stuck in purgatory until they find his name. And thank God for L's paranoia, because they never, ever will. His picture is nowhere, his name is erased, everything about him is a ghost in the system.

The Voice—Light decides after a week of consciousness and interrogation to capitalize the 'v' in Voice—grows more and more frustrated with him every day. Though it is generally soft and intense, there are also times when it will snap and command, which Light finds terribly amusing. There is no way for the Voice to carry out its threats of trial or execution. Light, for once in the last, oh, decade or so, has all the fucking cards.

And he fucking loves it.

Sure, they keep him hungry and thirsty most of the time, but they feed him more than he was used to in Chicago, enough to keep him plenty healthy. And although they don't let him sleep much, all that really does is irritate him. They cannot hurt him. It is delicious.

After what Light estimates is a week of exhaustive interrogation and mildly inhumane treatment, the investigation takes an unexpected twist: Light meets the detective in charge of the case.

Honestly, he'd half-expected it to be L, playing a horrible joke. The Voice was smart—really smart. L-smart, Mello and Matt-smart. Whammy-smart. It was also about as emotionless as L often gets when he's playing detective, so Light though maybe it was just some of the revenge L is entirely entitled to take.

But when the Voice finally walks in, Light knows that it is him without a word. It is in the eyes, of course—they are dark, hard, intense. Piercing.

They are L's eyes.

Everything else is all wrong, of course. The hair and skin blend seamlessly into white clothing, and his pale lips are set into a soft grimace of determination and discomfort.

It all hardly matters, though. It is the eyes that Light cannot look away from. He slowly closes his mouth (which had opened with a snippy comment about turning the heat up when the door had opened) and sits up in bed.

So this was why they'd unchained his hands. Trying to make him feel more comfortable, trying to make him open up.

Light gives the young man a half-grin. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks.

The young man looks at him blankly. "My usual methods were not working. You have been quite successful in either evading my questions or lying about them. I've decided that perhaps it would be best if I were closer and could see the more miniscule expressions and tics so I might decipher truth from fiction."

"You know, you could just call it what it is," Light says tiredly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He hadn't noticed how long it'd been getting.

"And what is this?" the man asks, unfolding a chair he's brought and sitting in it. Light smiles a little as he watches the young man draw one knee up to his chest—a little like L.

"A stalemate," Light tells him.

The young man sighs. "You don't want to stay here forever, do you?" he asks.

"Why not?" Light asks, feigning contentment as he looks around the little prison cell. "It's plenty warm in here, I get fed often enough, and the medication is plentiful and free."

"You have no freedom," the young man points out.

Light laughs darkly. "Freedom's never done me any good anyway," he says. "I'm much safer locked up like this, and so is everyone else." There is a pause, and then Light starts and looks up. "I'm sorry, I don't know at all what I should call you."

The young man looks up thoughtfully and then meets Light's eyes again. "You may call me N," he says.

"N," Light repeats the letter. Something clicks softly in his brain, but he ignores it for the time being. He has to keep on his toes right now.

"All right, and what shall I call you?" N asks.

Light thinks for a moment and then grins. "Call me L," he says. N must be very surprised, for the emotion actually shows on his face, and his eyebrows crinkle as he studies Light carefully. Light shrugs. "I figured we're going by the first letter of our names. Right?"

N nods slowly. "Very well," he agrees. "L."

"Something you wanted to ask me?" Light asks.

N sighs. "You know what I need to know. Your name is all I need—though a confession would be nice as well."

"I'd confess if only you asked the right questions," Light tells him.

N's fingers, which had been toying with his curly hair, fall to the edge of the chair and he leans forward, face deadly serious. "L, I have been kind so far," he begins. "You have comfortable accommodation because I assumed you would get tired of being held indefinitely and would give me your name. I can see, however, that that was obviously unreasonable of me."  
Light snorts. "Obviously," he says.

N ignores his outburst and continues. "Things can get a whole lot less comfortable, however," he says. "Since technically you do not exist, then technically I am not bound by society's laws to treat you in a humane fashion."

Light cocks his head to one side. "Is that how justice works?" he asks curiously. "It must be," he murmurs, trailing off as he thinks of L's anonymity in conjunction with L's ability to basically do whatever the hell he wants.

N gives him a small, humorless smile. "I suppose it is. Now, then. This is your last chance to do things peacefully and painlessly. Give me your name."

_What a weird twist on the Kira phenomenon,_ Light thinks. _Now they want _my_ name. _

Outwardly, he just says, "No can do, N. I'm pretty sure my name is the only thing keeping me alive and well right now."

N watches him for another long moment and then nods. "Well then," he says, standing and folding his chair up, "I suppose that's it. You can expect to see some changes by tomorrow."

Light is a little apprehensive about these "changes," but he also thinks that after B, Crowley, and even L to some degree, this pale little stranger can do nothing he hasn't already seen. "Bring it on," he says quietly with a half-smile and a wicked gleam in his eyes. "I believe that I can take whatever you have."

N surveys him slowly. "Judging by your scars, I have no doubt about that. But I also have to wonder what boredom would do to your extraordinary mind—particularly if you are not placated by your usual cocktail of anti-psychotics."

Light pales a bit. "I see," he murmurs, eyes darting down to examine his hands.

N gives him a cruel little smile. "I'm glad," he answers, and closes the door behind him.

* * *

Weeks have passed since their last lead. Well, two weeks and a few days. But weeks nonetheless. Matt knows that L must be feeling absolutely shattered—at being so close but not being quite close enough to the person he values most in the world—but he has no real way of knowing.

L has closed himself off from the world. He has stopped taking cases, and after a week of no leads, he had booked a flight back to England and had left Matt and Mello alone in the hotel room in the dead of night with no explanations and no good-bye.

Matt is worried—but again, he has no way to assuage his fears. L will not answer his phone or his emails, and Matt doesn't even know which of his houses he's staying at. Not even Whammy will talk to them.

He looks at the footage of Light and B in the bank—the last information they have of them—for perhaps the thousandth time before closing his laptop and sighing.

L's depression and Mello's obsession with catching B has affected Matt more than he'd expected. And to be totally honest, it's more than that.

It's Light, too. Matt never actually thought he was _gone_. Gone means forever, gone usually means _dead_. And though Matt hadn't realized it, he and Light had actually been friends. And Matt doesn't make friends very easily.

He picks up his PSP3 and plays listlessly for a few minutes before giving up and throwing the little device to the couch. He wants to help—he wants to do _something_, dammit! But L won't let him in and Mello refuses his help when it comes to tracking B. Apparently, he'd just get in the way.

Which is true, actually, but Mello could have some tact about it.

It's just . . . it's a lot of things. It's L's desolation and Mello's absence and Whammy's silence and Light's . . . and the fact that Light is gone, maybe forever. It's the fact that hope is getting awfully hard to hold onto, and if it's hard for Matt, it must be impossible for L.

It's that Matt feels like his dysfunctional little family is absolutely falling apart and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

He groans and presses his palm into his forehead. This is impossible.

When his cell phone rings an hour later, Matt is in his same position, and he honestly considers not answering. What else could it be but bad news? But, tentatively and begrudgingly, he drags himself off the couch and picks up the phone. He looks at the caller ID, and again reconsiders answering.

But eventually, and on the last ring, his sense of loyalty gets the better of him and he presses the talk button. "Hey, Near," he says tiredly.

"Matt, I have a favor I need to call in," Near tells him. Matt smiles without any real happiness. Always straight to the point, is Near.

"I think you're all out of favors from me," he says. "You can owe me, though."

"It's quite a big favor," Near says. "You might not be able to accomplish it, but I'm at the end of my rope."

Ooh, things must be bad if Near is resorting to adages to explain his plight. "I'll do my best," Matt promises. And why not? Light's case is at a standstill and Matt needs something to get him out of this depression. Not even video games are working, for God's sake.

"I currently have a prisoner in my possession whom I strongly suspect is the perpetrator of a series of murders across the globe."

"Well, that's good news."

"It would be if I knew who he was."

Matt frowns and pauses his doodling he's been doing with a pen and paper he's picked up. "Well, that is a problem. What do you need from me?"

"I need a name, some history, some images, something to work with. I've had my best people on it for weeks and we can't find a single thing."

Matt smiles, this time genuinely. "Lucky for you, Near, I just developed a program that could solve all your problems. Why don't you send me an image of this guy and I'll do some digging."

The gratitude in Near's voice is practically tangible. "Thank you, Matt," he says.

"Aw, no prob, N," Matt tells him. "I'm pretty much outta work right now anyway."

"Well, I don't have terribly high hopes, but I'm sending the email right now. I'm going to have to resort to more . . . questionable methods of questioning soon, and I'd really rather not."

"All right, I'll get back to you as soon as I know something either way." He hangs up and lights up a little as his computer dings as Near's email comes in.

He turns to his computer and brings up the file, waits a moment, and soon enough, front and profile pictures of Near's criminal load.

And Matt sits still for a moment and even though he is not religious, "Good God in heaven," he mutters, one hand over his mouth as his hand gropes blindly for his phone.

"L?" he says breathlessly as L's damn voicemail comes on, "L, you call me back right away. It's Light.

"I've got him."

* * *

A/N: Well, not much to say! This should clear a number of things up, though not all. This chapter you get a bit of Matt, and then there's Near and Light, of course. Next chapter: L and Mello and B! And what a delightful chapter it's shaping up to be!

Not much to say here, actually. The chapter might be a little rough, so if you notice anything, do let me know! I've proofread most, but not all of it! Oh, and this chapter came about today mostly because of reviewers like you-especially like **Saramint**, who reminded me that you'd all been waiting a long time and that I do have spare time that I should be using to satisfy your Silence fix! Anyway, this isn't my very favorite chapter, but it's perfectly functional and I've been looking at it for weeks now, so . . . here you go! Review away!


	17. Breathe

**Part 17 - Breathe**

**Published 4.3.11**

* * *

"Near?"

Near doesn't look away from the infuriating puzzle currently displayed on his computer screen, but his eyes do flicker a little in recognition—and perhaps irritation. "Halle," he responds, "what is it?"

Halle takes a deep breath to brace herself, but before she can get a word in, Near interrupts with, "Yes, I am sure."

Halle blinks a little and frowns at him. "How the hell do you do that?" she demands.

Near offers her a shrug, and she smiles coldly at his back. He still hasn't looked away from the screen. "Judging by your tone, I was fairly certain that you were asking about our prisoner," he explains patiently, and Halle snorts softly. Near is anything but patient, and any suggestion otherwise is mere pretence. Then she sobers, remembering what she's here to discuss.

"I know that you're in charge of this investigation," Halle begins in her most professional, sycophantic voice, "but I think that the prisoner—L, is in a great deal of pain. What if he's dangerous when he's unstable and unmedicated?"

Near finally looks away from the images of his suspect on the screen in front of him and twists his hair slowly with two pale fingers. He frowns minimally at Halle. "That is essentially the point here, Halle," he informs her. "He _is_ dangerous when not medicated, hence why I believe that he is a cold-blooded sociopath with homicidal tendencies."

"But to drive him to insanity because he won't tell you his name-"

"I'm not driving him anywhere," Near interrupts again, and Halle bites the inside of her cheek in irritation with the pale twenty-something in front of her. "He is already there. I just removed his anti-psychotics."

"You know perfectly well what I'm trying to say," Halle scoffs. "And I'm just trying to make sure that your obsession with winning drives you to the other side of the law."

Near surveys her coldly, and all of a sudden Halle finds herself wishing she hadn't spoken at all. She holds her ground, though; someone has to be a check and balance on Near and even though she is nowhere near his status, she still has some say in the investigation.

"Do you feel that me turning to a life of crime is really a plausible danger here?" Near asks, sounding genuinely curious. He isn't, though, Halle knows him well enough to know he's mocking her.

"Again, Near, you know exactly what I'm saying. You can't pretend naivety with me anymore."

"Nor would I ever want to," Near says plainly. Halle opens her mouth to argue but Near lets his hand drop from his hair and she shuts it as he stares her down. "All right," he says, "I can see this is a concern for you, and although I do not pretend to understand your feelings about this criminal, I believe you'd fight me unless you receive a satisfactory explanation. Correct?"

Hesitantly, Halle nods. God, Near is creepy as _hell_ sometimes when he stares at you with those big dark eyes set in his pale little face.

"Well then, I will explain this to you exactly once, and not again, so listen well because I am already quite distraught over my inability to break this criminal and if I have to repeat myself I do believe you will be dismissed for a few days for vacation."

Against her better judgment, Halle breaks in with, "You've never given me vacation before; so is that supposed to be a threat, or a promise?"

Near's eyes narrow very slightly. "It would be a vacation for _me_," he tells her. There's a beat, and then Halle cracks a smile. Near nods and continues, "Now, this prisoner—L, if we're going to use his alias—is legally insane and almost certainly a murderer on a global scale. He is deviant, dangerous, and as of yet, unidentified. If I cannot find his name, I cannot charge him. As far as 'inhumane treatment,' I am an international detective, and as such I am not bound by any particular country's laws."

"But we are currently in U.S. territory," Halle speculates. "Don't you think that the Constitution would apply here?"

Before she even finishes, Near is shaking his head. "No," he says. "According to the 1901 and 1902 Insular Cases, the U.S. Constitution does not, and I quote, 'follow its flag.' Hence, it is perfectly legal to treat the prisoner by standard international law, which does not specify that I must grant prisoners any medication."

Halle sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose as Near looks on coolly. "Regardless, Near," she says, "it is inhumane. We don't really need his name; he's off the streets and that's the important thing. He'd be locked up forever anyway; why can't we just keep him locked away till we get a name?"

"Because that is not justice," Near says calmly. "He must be identified and tried. That is international law. Otherwise, I must grant him his freedom in three months' time."

Halle snorts again, this time in derision. "Please, you wouldn't really set him free," she says.

"I am going to get his name regardless," Near says, "so this argument is moot. However, as far as hypothetical situations go . . . you may be right. I hate to think I might be persuaded to break any law, but my natural stubbornness and sense of independence and justice may not allow me to just set free a mass murderer."

"You keep avoiding my principle argument," Halle reminds him.

Near blinks at her. "Which would be?"

"That this is inhumane, despite what international law states."

Near's frown deepens. "Oh, yes," he says, "that."

"That."

"That's easily dealt with," Near explains. "I don't care."

Halle feels her blood begin to boil. "You can't just-!" she begins.

Near cuts her off. "I hate losing," he snaps, and his dark gaze returns to brood over the computers in front of him. "And I _refuse_ to lose to a murderer, despite the metal toll it may take on me."

Halle's glare increases in intensity and she shakes her head, but she says nothing, knowing that Near is in charge here, and the few times she's seen him look like that, he absolutely refused to budge.

They stay like that for a brief moment, Near glowering at the pages of useless information in front of him, and Halle glowering at him, until a horrible sound tears through the air.

Halle jumps, looking more alarmed as more loud sounds—banging, shouting—follow; Near whips around to face the screen where he can see his suspect apparently trying to either tear himself or his cell apart.

Near's suspect is twisting his wrists in their cuffs and is banging his head irregularly on the wall behind him, eyes unfocused, glazed as he mutters something quiet enough that Near can't quite make it out.

In another camera, Near can see the guards stationed by the prisoner's door, poised with needles (tranquilizers, of course) at the ready, about to rush in an administer the soothing drug.

Near leans forward and presses the intercom button for the hallway. "Wait," he says, ignoring Halle's scowl, "don't go in yet." _Don't go in at all, you imbeciles_, he thinks to himself. _What part of 'do not give the prisoner any drugs' was unclear to you? _

Next, Near presses the button that will allow him to speak to the cell—oh, how it grates on Nears subconscious mind to call him that. "L," he says, calmly. He can see the prisoner shake his head. "L," Near repeats, "what seems to be the problem?"

The prisoner pauses, as though in thought, and then groans and slides down the wall behind him, settling eventually into an unsteady, defensive position.

"L, can I get you anything?" Near asks, trying to make his voice convey sympathy. It does not come naturally.

There's a pause, then the prisoner begins nodding his head. "I want to leave," he groans softly. "Please, please, let me out of here, it's-it's too dark and . . . and it's too close in here and I can't—please, I need . . ." And he trails off.

Near waits for a moment, but nothing more is coming, so he agreeably states, "Of course we'll let you out, L, just as soon as we get your name."

The prisoner laughs and it is dry and rasping and his chest heaves and his head shakes. "Please," he says, gasping, and Near can feel Halle's glare on his back. "Please, I was doing so much better."

"You can feel better again, L," Near reminds him. "Just give us your name and we'll bring you your meds. There are guards just outside your door ready to administer them.

The suspect shakes his head. "I-I can't," he mumbles, still shaking his head, gazing down at the grey concrete he's sitting on. "I can't, please, it's important, I remember he said, I remember it is, it's important that I keep it . . ."

"It will be fine," Near reassures him. "You can tell me, L."

"L," the prisoner repeats dully, his hands still twisting in the cuffs as he rocks very slightly. "I think-yes, I think I want to call. I think I want to call him, please, I think I could decide if I talked to him, if I talk to him, he'll know if it's okay. I can't decide. Please, I think I want call-"

"Call whom?" Near asks, pulling his cell phone out and grabbing a portable little laptop he can use to speak to and watch the prisoner, and he heads towards the cell.

"Call him—call Ryuuzaki." Near's suspect pauses and sighs as his muscles relax as he rolls his head to the side against the wall and nods a little. "Yes, he could help, I think. He might be . . . maybe angry, I don't know, maybe he is . . . but I think, I think just talking, I think I want to."

Near arrives at the cell and instructs the guards to unlock it. He steps insides and holds out his cell phone—which already has a program to trace and record calls on it. "What's the number?" he asks.

* * *

Several hours and an ocean away, Quillsh Whammy hesitantly, tentatively, reaches out and taps on the door in front of him. Generally speaking, L has been fairly cooperative over the past few weeks, but Whammy would every so often find himself on the receiving end of L's temper and grief.

"L?" he asks softly, pushing the door open gently. "L, are you awake?"

There is a soft sound as L shifts in his chair to look towards the source of his interruption. "Yes, Whammy, I am awake," he murmurs, looking towards his almost-father with blank, black, empty eyes.

Pausing in the doorway, Whammy takes stock of L's appearance. The room is lit only by a small desk lamp, since L is revising to open the blinds or turn on the overhead lights, but Whammy can see just well enough for another piece of his heart to snap off and settle somewhere in his stomach like a rock. L is just . . . he is tired. He is weary. Done. Dead.

L's eyes are sunken and dark—so dark Whammy cannot even distinguish his pupils from the irises; his face is gaunt and pale. L has not been eating for the past few weeks—he has preferred to drink his calories in the form of coffee and tea, and it is simply not enough. His clothes positively hang on him, and Whammy can clearly see the bones of his clavicle and shoulder as L makes no effort to adjust the shirt which has slid to one side. L moves listlessly, when he moves at all, and that is not often. Whammy rarely sees him out of his room now, and then only when he enters the kitchen for more coffee—which he is only adding a few sugars too, something Whammy never thought he'd be so distraught over.

Whammy sighs softly and shutters the grief he's feeling for a moment. HE holds up the try he's carrying. "I brought you some pastries, and some tea," he says, and when L only blinks at him, he adds, "I'd noticed you haven't been eating much lately. It worries me a bit."

Again, L blinks a few times and then slowly nods. "Thank you, Whammy," he says, making no move to take the tray. Whammy sets it down on his desk, absent of the technology that usually bedecks it.

Although Whammy thinks he knows the answer, he still sits down next to L and asks, "Are you ready to talk yet?"

L looks at him with those hollow eyes and slowly shakes his head. "No," he says, very clearly. "I am sorry to worry you, Whammy, but I am not." Each word is carefully enunciated and seems like it costs L a great deal to say.

Sighing and standing, Whammy nods. "I love you L, naturally I'm going to be worried. But I can respect your desire for privacy."

L starts a little at Whammy's words, and the surprise on his face seems like it is enough to break the dam he's built up and suddenly he takes a shuddering gasp and lowers his head and begins to sob.

Whammy goes to him, knowing that although physical touch is still a little strange for him, L needs it. He places his arm across his shoulders and rests his other hand in L's dark hair.

After about a minute, Whammy becomes aware that L is speaking, quietly, and it takes him a moment, but he realizes that L is saying, over and over, "I lost him. He's gone."

"Oh, L," Whammy says. It is all he can say. He has no reassurances to offer and L does not do false hope.

They stay like that for a moment, and when L begins to calm down, Whammy offers him a tissue, which inexplicably makes L laugh, choked and heavy. Whammy wipes his own tears and sits down as L scrubs at his cheeks. When L raises his head, his eyes are mostly dry, but they are red-rimmed and his face is pale and wan.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"L, you never have to apologize-"

"Matt called earlier," L interrupts, and Whammy can see the heady resistance L is putting up against another emotional outburst, so he plays along. It's the least he can do to help the broken man he's always thought of as a son.

"Yes, I saw that he had," Whammy says. "Do you think we should call him back?"

L shakes his head. "If you would be so kind, Whammy, could you please listen to the message I believe he left? And deal with him if he needs something?"

Whammy nods. "Of course, L," he says, picks up the house phone, and dials for voicemail.

* * *

Back on the same continent Near was currently occupying, Mello and a few of his men approach an apartment in the wrong side of St. Louis and Mello grins and says, "You've got nowhere to run, you son of a bitch," and then kicks the door in.

* * *

"L!" Whammy's voice is high and panicked-sounding, and all of L's muscles seize up. Then they all relax and he becomes boneless as Whammy continues, "Matt's found him, L. He knows where Light is."

* * *

". . . 4-6-3-8," Light finishes reciting, still enough in his right mind to remember the number L had given him years ago to memorize in case, impossible as it seemed at the time, they ever were separated.

N finishes dialing, and puts the phone on speaker. "Don't worry," he says, as the phone begins to ring. "I'm certain this will turn out all right." And he smiles to himself a little.

* * *

Matt's phone begins to ring shrilly and out of control as he paces, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do while L is busy slitting his wrists or whatever, when he has the information right in his grasp. He's actually about to buy a plane ticket to London when it rings.

He leaps out of his chair and looks around wildly for a moment, before pouncing on the pair of jeans he'd been wearing before he'd decided in a fit of mania-induced insanity that pants were wildly overrated and draws the phone out.

"Yes?" he gasps.

"Matt, where is he?"

* * *

There is only one, small figure in the little St. Louis apartment, and he is crouched on a chair in the kitchen, looking down the barrel of Mello's gun calmly.

"Well, Mihael," B says, "well played. You got me." He puts his hands over his head in mock surrender.

Mello cocks the gun. "You hurt Matt," he snarls.

"Oh, I'm sorry," B says. "Are you the only one allowed to do that?"

Mello whips him across the face with the pistol and feels immense satisfaction at the resounding _crack_ and the blood that begins to run down B's face. "I'm going to kill you," he tells B pleasantly. "I'm going to shoot you in the fucking head, right fucking now."

B cocks the head in question to the side. "But don't you want to know? The answer to the puzzle?"

"I don't give a fuck about puzzles," Mello snaps. "You hurt Matt, that's all I need to know."

B pauses. He knows that Mello is waiting for fear on his part; Mello doesn't want to kill him without that. "Near would want to figure out the puzzle," he comments snidely, and Mello strikes him again with the gun, in the same spot.

"Shut the fuck up!" Mello demands.

"You want to know," B tells him. "You want to know, Mihael Keehl, you always _have_ to know. We all do. You want to know where I got a Death Note. You want to know how I knew where Misa Amane lived and how I could make that hotel go up in flames and how I knew where Light was and most importantly, you want to know _why_."

Mello stops, and thinks for a moment, gun never wavering. After a few seconds of silence while Mello's men look at each other and shrug, Mello's eyes snap back to B's and he grins. "Know what?" he asks.

"What?" B asks back, and it's a dare and B's saying, _yes, please, do it, I dare you, I double dare you_.

"I actually_ don't_ fucking care." _I accept, you bastard._

A shot sounds.

* * *

"-wait, wait, wait, Matt, wait, I have another call, God willing, it's Light, Near would give him a phone call since they're still in the U.S."

L doesn't even listen to what Matt has to say to that as he clicks over and says, "Yes?"

There's a brief, crackling pause, and then L melts when he hears the soft, tentative voice say, "Ryuuzaki?"

"Light," he breathes.

"Wait," Light interrupts, "wait, Ryuu, wait, no, they want . . . my name. They want my name."

"It's okay, Light, I know," L says. "It's going to be fine."

He hears a sigh of relief. "Okay," Light says, and his voice is quiet and childlike and L's chest becomes tight and his features harden.

"Are you okay, Light?" L asks, still breathless with relief.

"I'm . . . I don't know, Ryuuzaki," Light says. And then his voice hitches and he whispers, "Ryuu, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't . . . I did all of it and I-"

"Light, Light, it's okay, don't worry, it's okay," L tells him, interrupting before he becomes hysterical. And in that moment, L is so relieved, that it _is _all okay.

"I'm sorry," Light whispers one more time, and then he's silent.

"Where are you?" L asks, because he wants to hear Light's voice and he never wants to stop hearing it.

"I . . . I don't actually know," Light says with a choked, hysterical laugh. "They've got me here in some prison, I don't know, they think . . . they think I killed him."

"I know," L says. "Are you okay? Keep talking to me"

"No," Light says bitterly. "The medicine, it's just . . . just gone and I hate it, L, I _hate _it but I need it and they won't give it back and I can't—the walls are dripping and the ceiling is wet and I'm sliding up and I can't feel anything and I feel _everything _and it _burns_, Ryuu. Please," Light adds, "please, Ryuuzaki, they want my name and I don't know if I can give it to them but they won't give me the medicine otherwise-" Here L's eyes narrow and he thinks how he's going to roundhouse kick Near so hard that he'll have to have surgery to get his head straight again-"but I don't know I don't know if I can give it to them and I'm kind of afraid and I _miss _you, Ryuu, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just want to come home-"

"Light," L interrupts. "Light, it's okay. You don't have to give them your name."

"But the medicine-" Light begins.

"It's _okay_," L stresses. "It's okay, keep your name. Just give them mine."

"Your . . . your . . ."

"Yeah, my name. The full one. It's okay. The detective in charge of your case will know what to do with it."

"Okay," Light says, his voice all relief and blind trust and that feeling in L's chest starts up again.

"Light, I'm going to save you," he promises.

"Okay," Light repeats.

L doesn't want to, _God, he does not want to_, but there is so much to do, so many preparations, he and Matt need to work on it, so he says. "It's going to be okay, Light, but I have to go. I love-"

"Time's up," says a cold voice on the other line and then the phone clicks and he is gone.

For a moment, L freezes where he is and grips the phone so hard he is afraid it is cracking but he doesn't _care_, how _dare_ Near treat his Light like that? Then he reigns in his anger and breathes and dials Matt's number. There is too much to do to dwell on that, and besides, all that really matters is that Light—oh, Lord, Light is alive!

L's hands feel numb, he breaks into a trembling smile, and he begins to shake and laugh and cry all at once. Light is _alive_, he is away from B and safe and _alive_.

* * *

"Well," Near says coldly, snapping the phone shut, "I suppose this wasn't a complete waste of time. I have your first name at least—_Light_."

Light nods slowly, mind still reeling from what L had been about to say to him before Near had cut him off.

"Now all I need is a last name," Near says. "I don't suppose getting that from you will be easy, will it?"

"I . . . no," Light admits. "No, he told me his name would be enough."

"I heard," Near says. "Must be one hell of a name if he thinks it's going to mean something to me." Good Lord, Mello's vulgarity must be rubbing off on him—but _damn_, he's frustrated, this case is at a standstill and-

"His name is L," Light says, and Near freezes.

"Elle?" Near repeats, forcing himself to stay calm. "Strange name for a man."

But Light is shaking his head. "No," he says, and holds his hand up, thumb and forefinger extended to form the letter. "L. Lawliet."

Near's eyes widen and he spins around and waves the guards out. "What did you say?" he demands.

Light grins at him, a real, feral grin, despite the fact that he's still trembling and handcuffed and miserable and crazy. "L Lawliet," he repeats, though what he's really saying is, _I win_.

* * *

A/N: WOW. Hey guys how's it going how have you been it's been a while, I realize. Sorry! If you care to know why, I explain a bit on my profile, but I've just been sick for awhile. HOPEFULLY this chapter doesn't have too many typos, I haven't really looked it over, but I'm exhausted and going to be sounds better than proofreading, which, you know, maybe I'll do in the morning. Maybe. If there is something wrong, please do point it out to me and I'll do my best to fix it!

But yeah, what did y'all think? (Just kidding, I'm not from the South.) We only have two chapters left, I believe, though maybe I'll try to make it three just because 20 is such a nice, even number. I know it seems like everything wraps up nice and tidy here, but believe me, there is definitely more to come! Seriously, if anyone guesses what else I have going on, I will give them cookies or something. Okay, actually, I would really just be super freaked out because there really aren't that many clues to it so that would be super weird and freaky XD

Anyway, I want to seriously thank all you AMAZING reviewers! You guys seriously rock my socks, you are way too nice to me! Thanks for not forgetting me during my extended absence! I appreciate every review, even though I don't have time to respond most of the time. So thank you thank you thank you and if you have time, wanna let me know what you thought of this update?


	18. Draw

**Part 18 - Draw**

**Published 5.10.11**

* * *

Near jams his phone into his pocket and turns abruptly on his bewildered-looking guards. "Administer the Amobarbitol," he says, struggling to keep his monotone. "A few hundred miligrams or so, enough to keep him knocked out for several hours. I'll need time to negotiate a deal."

He walks, distractedly, down the corridors until he reaches the main room. Halle begins to speak as soon he enters, but he's only half-hearing her questions; he is stuck staring at the computer screens in front of him, fingers worrying at his hair, toes wiggling in his oversized socks. For the first time in his life, he finds himself lost and completely at odds with himself. This is so unlike him . . . this is . . . he imagines that this must be a bit like what Mello feels like most of the time.

He is torn, and he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to decide. If that was truly L on the phone—and with Light's knowledge of L's true name, Near can't bring himself to really doubt it, much as he wishes to at this point—then L is . . . in _love _with this criminal. And what's more, he's willing to risk his reputation—which is all an international detective really _has—_over it.

Worst of all, Light is obviously more important to L than justice.

Near's small mouth twists, just a bit, and he grimaces.

This isn't right. It is all wrong. Nothing should be more important to L than justice. He's _L_, for God's sake. L and Justice are synonyms. If L isn't 100% committed to that, then . . .

Then Near isn't sure what is right.

Shaking his head and shaking off Halle's questions, Near pulls out his cell phone again and dials.

* * *

L is tapping at his computer and talking quickly to Matt, filling him in, when his call waiting beeps and he sees the same number that Light had called him from.

Without even a good-bye (though with the hope that Matt will understand), L switches over. "This is L," he says, and when there is a pause, he adds, "and this must be Near."

"L," Near says, and his voice is cool and hardened.

"I'd waste time with pleasantries if I thought you'd appreciate it, but I sense that you'd rather focus immediately on the matter at hand, yes?"

"I have Light," Near says, matter-of-factly (though he does not know exactly who Light is supposed to be).

"And I want him back," L agrees. He thinks that maybe he should be playing his cards a little closer to the chest, but then he thinks, hell, what cards, he has none left. All he has left is direct bargaining, and it's a good thing he's pretty damn good at that.

"And I suppose you expect me to just hand over a dangerous prisoner to your care when you are obviously compromised on this matter."

L's lips twist a bit at Near's tone. That insubordinate little _bastard_. L _made _him, it is with L's resources that he is able to be a detective today. L trained him personally, and L was the one who made sure Near was able to stand as an independent detective. L takes a deep breath and finally answers calmly, "No. I expect you to transfer the care of a dangerous prisoner, whom you are holding indefinitely without stated cause, to a more experienced detective who already knows how to handle said prisoner."

"Hmm," Near intones. He is quiet for a moment, then says, with a very real trace of pain in his voice, "And I had expected the world's greatest detective to have the brains not to sleep with the very criminals he hunts." Here, L's grits his teeth and bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep from saying anything. "But I suppose," Near continues, with less sincerity, "that this just proves the old adage true and that we cannot always get everything we want, can we?"

"How droll," L murmurs, managing to keep his voice calm even after Near's ringing accusation.

"Well my other option was to mention that between Mello and myself, disappointed expectations seem to be something of a specialty of yours," Near says, in an equally cool voice.

Near's words are a slap in the face, calling to mind the path Mello took after L (apparently unwisely) chose Near as his heir; and for a moment L is stunned, unable to respond. Then, he manages softly, "You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, _Nate_. My relationship with your prisoner, which you so crudely referred to, absolutely does not concern you or these negotiations."

"Doesn't it?" Near asks, and although his voice sounds pale and almost light-hearted, there are underlying tones of steel that make L cringe. Near is obviously not going to make this easy, then.

"It doesn't," L informs him. "All you should be concerned with is being ready for my arrival in about seven hours."

Near ignores that for the time being, and says, "I think that your relationship with my prisoner is exactly what I need to be concerned with. If you are not planning on bringing him to justice after what he's done-"

"What he's suspected of having done," L interrupts.

"-then I will," Near finishes, regardless of L's words. "I cannot in good conscience let him go when I know that you will allow his behavior to go unpunished."

"You know nothing of his history," L says, and something in his voice makes Near stop and slow down and listen. "You do not understand the incredibly complex human being you are currently dealing with—and from the sound of it, dealing with poorly."

"And you do know him," Near says, voice toneless.

"Better, perhaps, than I know myself, Near." L matches his tone as well as he can, but he can't quite stop the melancholy that twists his words a little.

"You are in love with this criminal," Near accuses.

"I have tried for the better part of a decade not to be, and as you can see, it hasn't turned out well," L retorts.

"What with a half a dozen people dead across the world, no, I'd say that it really hasn't turned out well."

L stops at that one. Near is blaming Light for more than just one murder (presumably Crowley)? Of course, he's right, but as far as L knows, Light hasn't killed anyone as of late. Finally, he decides to just ask, "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the five to seven people I suspect Light has murdered over the past several weeks. Most notably, a Miss Misa Amane from Japan."

When he says this, L's heart jumps a little in his chest and he swallows, pulling the phone away from himself to catch his breath. "How, exactly, are you linking Amane's death to Crowley's?" L asks.

"The MO is very . . . specific in each of these cases, and since no news about the killer has been released, I am reasonably certain it is not the result of copy-cat murders," Near tells him.

"The MO?" L asks. "And what, exactly, is the MO?"

"That's not information I feel the need to disclose to someone not directly involved in this case," Near says. "And in fact, I've let this conversation go on entirely too long. You insist on coming here, I suppose?"

"I'm headed out the door right now," L tells him, which is the complete truth. He doesn't bother with baggage and instead has slipped his laptop into a bag along with snacks and his tennis shoes.

"I don't know why you think that coming here is going to change anything," Near says. "I understand that you are concerned for this criminal, but I also understand that you have made the criminal error of allowing your personal emotions to influence you in this case. I can't allow that."

L is about to respond harshly, but then he swallows his pride and remembers that he does not want to antagonize Near right this minute. "I understand your concern," he answers instead, "and I'll simply have to spend the plane ride coming up with ways to convince you that you will not be taking a risk turning Light's custody over to me."

"I suppose I'll wish you luck with that," Near says. "My mind is not easily changed once it's been made up."

"Yes, I remember," L says, remembering Mello and Near's frequent arguments back at Wammy's. "However, you should know that failure is not an option for me. You do not realize all I have been through to get to this point, and I will not allow my hard work to go to waste."  
"I'll start working on my terms for the prisoner's potential release, then," Near says, and L swears he can hear a tiny smirk in there somewhere.

"This isn't a hostage situation, Near," L tells him, "so you don't get to have terms." He knows he's snapping out retorts now, but damn it, it's been a long time since he's seen Light, and he'll go to hell and back to get him home.

"Is it not?" Near asks calmly; and then, just as calmly, he hangs up.

L stares at his phone for a moment, incredulous, then tosses it heavily into his bag and rests his head on his knees. He does not know what Near is planning, but he does understand that he is not going to like it.

Suddenly, his head snaps up as he thinks of something. He is no good at negotiations; he's too set on his own ways and has too little empathy. But someone else might be able to help.

He pulls his phone out and dials, and when the person on the other end answers, he says, "Matt, how would you like to keep me company while I visit your old friend?"

* * *

As it turns out, L lied a bit. It takes him a full 8 hours to fly across the Atlantic and another half of one to meet up with Matt and reach the building Near uses as his base of operations.

L knows that he should be nervous, knows that he should be bouncing up and down in his seat at the thought of finally seeing Light; and he can tell Matt thinks he's acting strangely calm as they drive to Near's base. But he isn't anxious, and he isn't excited and he isn't anything. He just is, and he's going to get Light, who is alive and well enough.

And right now, that is all that matters.

They arrive at an impressive looking warehouse-style building and are subjected to an entirely unnecessary weapons check, which L has to laugh a bit at. What does Near think he's going to do? Come in here with guns blazing, demanding to see Light? Fighting all Near's specially-trained agents? Please. Near ought to have given him more credit than that. He may love Light, but that doesn't make him brainless. Matt seems to feel the same way; as they pat him down, he grimaces at L and pantomimes karate-chopping the guard's neck, which earns them both further scrutiny. Afterward, they are led into a brightly lit room with a few comfortable chairs with wheels grouped around a polished table, all of which L immediately hates. He eyes the chairs warily and then, with disgust, leans back against the wall to wait.

Matt, on the other hand, slams himself down into one of the chairs and makes himself comfortable. Feet propped up on the table, he pulls out a handheld and begins destroying animated evil once more. L wishes it were so easy in real life.

_With the Death Note, it would be that easy_, says a snide voice in his head, which he quickly tamps out, not wishing to think about anything involving the Death Note right now.

After several minutes, L begins to get antsy. Not, he thinks, because he is concerned for Light (although he is) but because he absolutely hates waiting. So, he begins to pace. He'd never thought he was the pacing sort, but it turns out that when you're locked in a white room, forced to wait for the one person you've been dying to find, you change your habits a bit.

Matt watches him out of the corner of his eye for a minute or so before sighing and setting the console down. "L, chill," he says. "You've gotta stay calm for this."

L pauses and looks at him. "I am calm," he says, using his best L-voice.

Matt snorts and rolls his eyes, which L thinks is very juvenile. "It's gonna turn out just fine," he says, and L nods.

"I know," L says. "I will make it turn out fine. I am not worried about how things will turn out; I am just worried about Light right now. He is not medicated properly, and I fear for his stability."

"He is sedated," a cold voice says as the door opens.

L turns and watches a the self-assured young man walks into the room and sits in a chair at the head of the table. Matt rolls his eyes again; this time, L thinks it's funny.

"I suppose that's a relief," L says grudgingly. It is certainly better than nothing; sedation will keep Light from dwelling on himself for too long.

"Where is he?" Matt asks, eyes on the game once more.

"Matt," Near says instead of answering, "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah, well, L said he needed a wing-man, so I decided to come along."

Near frowns. "I'm not at all certain that that is a proper application of the term 'wing-man.'"

Matt laughs. "Same old Near," he says fondly, and L is amazed before he remembers what an amazing actor Matt is; and then he's wondering if it really _is_ an act. He'll have to ask Matt later.

"Still, though," Near continues, "I'm surprised that Mello let you go. I was under the impression that you and he were inseparable these days."

Matt grins. "Well, sure we are. But we've always been, remember? Nothing's really changed for us."

"Except now you're sleeping together," Near notes bluntly, and Matt outright laughs at him.

"Please, Near, we were doing that at Wammy's too," he says, and Near and L both look at a bit surprised. Matt looks at them and shrugs. "What?" he asks. "We were 16 or so, sharing a bedroom, hormonal teenagers and all that. What did you expect?"

After a moment, L clears his throat. "I think we've gotten off track."

Near glances at him and nods. "In just a moment," he tells L, and L thinks he should be offended that Near just brushed him off like that.

"So where is Mello now?" Near asks. "If he knew about this, surely he'd be here."

"He has some other business to attend to," Matt says. "I'd just get in his way, so I'm here hanging out with L. Is your curiosity slated now?"

"Not really," Near says. "He's back with the Mafia so soon then? I thought he'd sworn off that sort of thing."

As Near's questions become more pointed, L is certain that Matt will respond negatively. But on the contrary, Matt just smiles again and says, "Now, Near, I don't think I'm really allowed to disclose that kind of sensitive material to you."

Near shakes his head. "I'll never understand why you waste your brains being his errand boy," he says.

Matt shrugs, the smile gone from his face. "It beats a lot of other things I could be doing right now," he says.

"Really," Near says, derision present in his usually monotone voice. "Murdering people, making chocolate runs, and bowing to Mello's insufferable and unreasonable demands are all better things than what you could be doing?"

Perhaps, L thinks, it was a mistake to bring Matt along. He never realized how much they'd fight. Though, there seems to be something here that he's missing. Why would Near be addressing this when there is the issue of Light to deal with?

L is surprised when Matt laughs at that comment, but then he realizes that it isn't really a kind laugh. Matt then leans across the table and says quietly, "Careful, Near. I know you inside and out. Don't try to play too high and mighty detective with me, because I know every one of your weaknesses and everything you're ashamed of in your past. You owe me too much for keeping your secrets and doing a lot of your dirty work for you to be acting like this right now." And then he leans back in his chair and begins playing his video game again, effectively dropping the conversation.

To L's surprise, Near also seems content to drop the conversation. He blinks slowly and then turns to L. "As you said, I suppose we got off topic," he says.

L's curiosity is piqued and he wants to know what the hell that was all about, but then he thinks that he'd best not antagonize Near and nods. "I'm here for Light," he says, "and I will not leave without him."

Near almost smiles. "So I gathered," he says. "Before we get to my conditions for his release, I'd like to know more about him."

"Is that knowledge one of your conditions?" L asks. He'll be damned before he tells Near that Light is actually _Kira_. Then negotiations really would get nowhere.

Near frowns a bit. "Well, no," he says. "I actually only have one condition."

There is a pause, and then L loses his patience. "Then what is that condition?" he asks sharply.

"I have been considering this ever since you spoke with Light on the phone," Near begins, and L's stomach sinks. "In light of the fact that you have been compromised on this case and have obviously lost your objectivity, there was really only one condition that made sense."

L grits his teeth. He thinks he knows what's coming and it makes him feel as though his body has live wires running through it, jolting him every other second. It is all he can do not to twitch from the adrenaline rushing through his veins. "And that was?" he prompts.

Near leans across the table and his voice is completely toneless as he states, "You want your criminal back; but L cannot be tainted with such a ridiculous human attachment. Therefore, you will give up the name and status of the detective known as L."

* * *

It is in a haze of some sort of tranquilizer (Light is still just aware enough to know what they've given him) that Light first sees L. Even so, Light recognizes the stride, expression, demeanor, and just everything and oh, how did he ever confuse B for L? The two are night and day, worlds apart from each other, and Light is sure now exactly who it is that he wants.

But. He is less sure about which he deserves, and so he is silent for a moment when L walks into his little prison cell. L's lips are pressed tightly together in an expression Light immediately recognizes as grief, and he wonders if he looks so bad that L really feels sorry for him. Light tries to smile, tries to show L the relief that washes over him the moment that he walks into the room, but somehow the smile gets twisted up with the medication that he's on, and instead he has to turn his head away to hide the tears.

"Light," L says, and his voice is so gentle and soft and so much kinder than anything Light has heard in a long while. "Light, it's going to be okay, now. You don't have to worry; I've taken care of everything."

"I'm sorry," Light whispers, face still turned away. He starts when he hears Matt's voice snap, "Near, keys, now," and he turns to see what's going on.

Matt and Near are standing just outside the room, and he watches as Near hands over a key—his freedom—to Matt, who in turn walks over to the bed and begins unlocking the straps that bind Light to the bed. As soon as that's done, he reaches behind Light and gently helps him to sit up.

"How're you doing?" Matt asks him.

Light grimaces; he knows how bad he must look. "I've been better," he admits, and Matt laughs a bit. The tightness in Light's chest eases a bit at that easy laugh, and Light thinks how, even though he's missed L the most, Matt has got to be a close second.

"Yeah," Matt returns, "you look like shit."

Light manages a weak laugh, because hey, he knew that. And somehow, when Matt says it, it is sort of funny.

L moves closer to help, and between the two of them, they get Light into a standing position. Before anyone can say or do anything else, L turns and hugs him fiercely.

Light hesitantly returns the hug, his reaction time slowed by the meds. He's also still a little afraid that this is just a dream, or some awful scheme concocted by Near to get his name. Still, he wants to believe it is real, and he manages to whisper, "Hi, L," even as he feels misplaced and surreal and a bit awkward.

L doesn't say anything, just holds him a bit tighter. "It's going to be fine now," L says, and Light can hear the strain in his voice that means that L is trying to convince himself as well as Light.

"I know," Light mumbles against L's shoulder. Another wave of exhaustion and dizziness has hit him and he shakes slightly as he tries to maintain his balance.

Abruptly, L pulls away and slips an arm around his waist. "Can you walk?" he asks him, sparing a glance to glare at Near, who looks utterly apathetic.

"Yes, if you'll help me," Light says.

"Well, I suppose that's it then?" Near asks. "You have transportation?"

L nods distractedly. It is all he can do to stop himself from holding Light tightly again and never letting go.

"I can provide you with a list of medications and a report of his behavior while he's-" Near begins, but,

"Near," Matt says conversationally, "shut up." And he turns to Light and hugs him briefly, before turning to L. "We better get him home," he says. "We have a long plane ride ahead of us, and he needs rest."

Silently, slowly, L nods and tightens his grip on Light as they help him out to the car. He knows Light is worried that he isn't saying anything, but Light doesn't realize how close to the surface L's emotions are. L is afraid that if he says anything, he'll lose it right in the middle of Near's headquarters.

As it is, L is glad that he makes it inside the car before he breaks down and begins to cry.

It is over. He has Light, he is safe, Crowley is dead. It is over.

And despite everything he's lost—his name, his reputation, and a good deal of his innocence—he is so, so glad.

* * *

Light slips in and out of consciousness and horrible dreams on the plane. Sometimes he is with B again and B holds him down and hurts him until he's screaming—but then he feels gentle hands on his face, stroking and running soft fingers through his hair until he calms and realizes, distantly, that it must be L touching him, because who else has ever showed kindness like that to him?

The rest of the time, he hears snippets of conversation between L and another speaker who he sometimes recognizes as Matt and other times can't quite hear well enough to know. They are talking about things he doesn't understand; things like detective work and someone named Nate River, and things like the fate of the world or his own fate.

Once, when he is just awake enough to hear but not enough to alert L to his consciousness, he fuzzily hears Matt swear and hit something. Matt sounds upset, but not angry; or maybe he sounds angry because he's upset, Light isn't sure.

But, "Damn it, L!" Matt exclaims. "I just don't understand!"

Light hears something rustling but he can't quite tell what it is. "I imagine that must be a very difficult and new experience for you," L says.

"Why would you do that?" Matt asks. "You could have bargained . . ."

And thought Light tries to hold onto consciousness, it slowly drifts away from him until he is asleep completely.

That is the first bit of conversation he hears. He doesn't know how much time passes then, but when he wakes up next, the cabin is dim, so he thinks it must be nighttime now. Distantly, he can hear L and Matt talking again.

"-not really the point, L," Matt is saying. "You _are_ L. Near can't take that away from you."

"He can," L disagrees, and Light's drug-addled mind can't understand. How could Near take away L from L? "He can, and he's going to, tomorrow, Matt. And I am resigned to it. It is a small price to pay for what I really need."

L's voice is almost sad, but there is some indefinable quality in it that Light can't quite make out, so he shifts onto his side, looking for L in the cabin, needing to see his face. And with the tranquilizers in his system, he doesn't even feel guilty at the immense relief that floods his system as L locks eyes with him and smiles.

L moves across the cabin and gently strokes his face. "It's okay, Light," he says. "You're safe; you can go back to sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping," Light says, but even so, he feels himself being overtaken by unconsciousness and he lets himself slip away, comforted by the proximity of L.

He doesn't fully wake up until he hears gravel crunching and realizes that they are finally, finally home. He had been sleepily escorted to the car after their plane had landed, and he remembers L and Matt helping him climb maladroitly into the backseat, but Light had promptly fallen back into a heavy sleep for the better part of the two hours it took to get to their house.

Now, though, as the meds start to fade after the long plane ride (Light assumes it was long, but really he has no way of knowing), he begins to feel his anxiety wash over him again, sending his heart pounding in waves. He is here, yes; he's alive, yes; but now he actually has to _live_, which is very different from just staying alive. And frankly, Light has recently been so concerned with the latter than he's completely forgotten how to do the former.

What's more, Light is worried now about L. He doesn't know if L is furious or relieved or upset or confused or any of the other dozen or so emotions Light knows he'd be feeling. Light imagines, though, that he himself would be pretty pissed off if L just took off on him, and his stomach clenches as his insides begin to crawl and contract. He shrinks back into his seat (just a bit, not enough to be noticed, God knows Light wants to escape notice right now) and begins to shiver.

Oh, God—what is he going to do now, how could he be so stupid, calling L? What the hell was he thinking, why would L even want him back ,why would he ever take him back; this must just be some horrible joke or plot or—and if it isn't, isn't that even worse? Doesn't Light owe him now, more than ever? And how is he going to live now that everything is even more uneven, isn't that why he left before, why does he think it will have changed and

How—how can L ever, ever forgive him for all this?

That thought echoes and lasts long after the other have faded. It doesn't stop and the ringing is loud in his ears and he shivers a little harder, arms wrapped around himself tight.

L, in the passenger seat of the car, finally notices Light is awake and having something of a panic attack in the back seat. He reaches out with one warm, calm hand and gently takes one of Light's and holds it, tight. "Light," he says, and his voice is so soft, Light's breath catches in his throat. "Light, it's going to be fine. You'll see."

Light doesn't even breathe for a moment, not sure what to say or even how to say it—and then they both freeze when Matt slams on the brakes and exclaims, "Holy God in heaven!"

L releases him and whips around and they both look towards the source of Matt's profanity.

L leans forward, mouth slightly ajar as Light simultaneously shrinks back into the seat and claws at the armrest, holding it tightly for stability, trying to get as much distance between himself and the impossible sight he's confronted with.

Because there, sitting on the front porch, nonchalant as you please, sits Mello—who also happens to be holding his pistol to the head of a heavily-bandaged, tightly tied-up B, who looks about as disgruntled as Mello does smug.

* * *

A/N: AUGH THIS CHAPTER THIS CHAPTER MADE ME ITS BITCH AND I WILL HATE IT FOREVER.

Okay, sorry. That maybe was a little bit of an overreaction, but I have spent HOURS on this chapter and I just cannot get it right. The ending rocks, I love it, but the rest of it can just go to hell. Ugh. Sorry. I'm just super insecure about it, but you guys have waited long enough and man, I'm just plain ol' sick of looking at it at this point.

So, please, if you liked it (or if you didn't and just want to know what the hell is going to happen), review and make bahari feel better about herself!


	19. Resolution

**Part 19 - Resolution**

**Published and Edited 5.15.11**

* * *

_From: L_

_Bcc: Director of the NPA_

_Director Yagami;_

_Your service in both your head position in the NPA and alongside the detective L is the reason for this email. It has been noted that you were very much involved in the Kira case and were an indispensible instrument in its conclusion. Because of your personal involvement, it is only fitting that you should be notified personally that the detective known as L is dead. Thank you for your selfless service; it will not be forgotten, should there ever be a successor to L's name. _

Soichiro Yagami stares in shock at the email that confronted him as he first came into his office to begin work for the day. Was this some sort of horrible prank or joke? What the hell was this supposed to mean, the detective known as L was dead? L can't be dead—he's L, for God's sake. If he survived Kira—and here Soichiro pauses to take a deep breath and swallow the desperation and shame that _still_ accompanies the memory—then he most certainly can't have been killed by some common criminal.

He pauses and then goes back to the email again. It is from the email address L has used in the past to contact him, but if what the message says is true, then who sent it? Who has access to L's personal account? The email has no signature. Unless . . . maybe Watari sent it? Or perhaps L had drafted this email in the event of his own death?

But, he thinks, it just doesn't make any sense. He wasn't aware that L was working on any cases. What could have finally brought the great detective to his knees?

Again, albeit unwillingly, Soichiro thinks back on his . . . his son.

He hates to think of him. He hates everything about what Light Yagami became. But wasn't he still his son? Wasn't there still some part he must have played in Light's degeneration and descent into absolute insanity? Light had half his genes, of course, and he had always seemed to look up to Soichiro . . .

It is in the past, he tells himself firmly, trying to fix his mind back onto the current impossible problem. Light has nothing to do with this.

And yet . . .

Yet he cannot help but think back several years—back when he had finally decided to stop tormenting himself with all the unanswerable questions and get some answers. Back to the only time he had ever used his power as director of the NPA for selfish reasons.

He knows what the judge said at Light's trial of course—Light was sentenced to an anonymous mental health facility for the criminally insane, _with no visitors_. But for the first time in his life, Soichiro had found himself questioning what justice demanded. And all the questions that touched every little thing he did (questions like _why_ and _what have I done_ and _do you understand what you've done_ and, most importantly, _were you ever, even once, sorry?_) were driving him to distraction. He could get nothing done without thinking about his son. Every case, every mention of Kira, every time he saw one of the former task members, all the questions came rushing back to him until he found himself completely overwhelmed and unable to stop himself from bending the rules, just a little.

Just enough that he had found himself at the entrance to Crowley's Institute for the Criminally Insane two years ago.

He was going to see Light. Just once. And he was going to get the answers to his questions.

But.

But Light wasn't there.

He remembers the horror that had washed over him when he was told that there was no Light Yagami in the facility—and no record of Light Yagami ever having been there.

Because if Light wasn't there . . .

Then where is he?

Soichiro thinks all this again, and has to wonder . . . Light and L's destinies had always seemed so locked onto each other's. Could Light's disappearance, far-fetched as it may seem, have anything to do with L's (apparent) death?

He doesn't have much time to think on it, because only a moment after the question appears, Matsuda has barged into the room, waving a piece of paper and demanding to know what was going on.

"Matsuda, calm down," he says. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Have you seen this, Chief?" Matsuda asks, shoving the piece of paper—on which there appears to be an email printed—towards Soichiro.

Soichiro takes one look at the first line and nods, turning his laptop towards Matsuda. "Yes, Matsuda," he says. "I received the email as well."

"It isn't true," Matsuda pleads with him. "How could we be receiving emails from him if he were . . . gone?"

Soichiro shakes his head. "I don't know, Matsuda," he says. "My message didn't say who it was from. I imagine that they could have been automated emails, or perhaps that Watari could have sent them."

"But—but he can't be," Matsuda insists. "I saw him just two or three weeks ago!"

"It is possible—wait," Soichiro stops himself. "You _saw_ L? When was this?"

Suddenly, Matsuda looks nervous. "I just . . . Aizawa saw him too," he says. "He was working on a case and needed our help. I didn't actually talk to him—he didn't see me and we were in the middle of something-"

"Matsuda, what exactly happened?" Soichiro interrupts impatiently. He has had it with Matsuda's rambling. He knows he isn't anywhere near Light or L's level, but he isn't stupid either. There is something just not right here—something that isn't adding up. L told them a long time ago that there was no such thing as coincidences, and after working years as the chief of the NPA, Soichiro finds himself agreeing wholeheartedly with the sentiment.  
Matsuda takes a deep breath and calms down. He has changed a great deal since the Kira case—he is more stable now, and a much better detective, with great instincts and a well-balanced sense of mistrust that Soichiro is certain he must have developed after Light . . . well, after the case. However, Matsuda hasn't completely changed, and his excitability is one of the traits that has remained constant.

"L was here on a case," Matsuda tells him calmly. "I'm not completely sure what it was—some kind of retrieval. I guess he was chasing a dangerous criminal and wanted the NPA's help."

"Yes, I remember that," Soichiro says. "But you mean to tell me L himself showed up for this?"

Matsuda nods. "Yes, Chief," he says. "He actually came with us to the site of retrieval."

"And where was that?" Soichiro asks.

"The Teito Hotel."

"The one that just burned down?" Soichiro demands.

"Yes, the same," Matsuda answers. "The fire began while we were there."

"How?"

"No one knows."

"And L was there."

Matsuda looks slightly puzzled, though Soichiro can also sense some nervousness in the way he's standing and by the way he holds himself. "Yes, sir," he says. "He was."

"And . . . and that was the same day Misa Amane was found dead in her apartment, was it not?"

Matsuda's eyes light up with interest and . . . something suspiciously like an understanding. "Yes," he says, "I think you're right. That's so weird—that those two would happen on the same day and L would be there and everything-"

"Matsuda," Soichiro interrupts again. "What are you hiding from me?"

Matsuda immediately shakes his head. "Nothing, Chief," he insists. "It's nothing."

"What is nothing?" Soichiro demands. "Matsuda, if you know something that could help us make sense of all this, you need to tell me."

Matsuda looks down and bites his lower lip. "It really isn't anything," he says. "It can't be, anyway."

"What can't be?" Soichiro asks, and he feels his stomach contract and begin to twist in anticipation. Matsuda has never kept secrets from him before.

"Well, Chief . . ." Matsuda begins. His hesitation only makes Soichiro feel worse. "It's just . . . we were there to pick up a criminal, just someone L had hunted in the past. And I saw the criminal, in the hotel, just for a split second."

There is a pause, and Soichiro finally asks, wearily, "What else?"

Matsuda is biting at his lip harder now. "I didn't want to tell you!" he insists. "I'm sure it's nothing, just my eyes playing tricks on me, you know, there's no way it really was . . . him."

"Him?" Soichiro is almost afraid to breathe—and he thinks he knows what Matsuda is going to say.

After another pause, Matsuda admits, "Light, Chief. In the hotel, next to the criminal we were hunting, I thought I saw Light."

* * *

Matt barely manages to put their car in park before he is out of the car and running towards the house. "What the hell, Mello?" L can hear him say before the door slams shut, and then he and Light are alone in the car.

All L can hear now is Light's panicked breathing and he turns slowly to face him. He watches as Light's eyes flicker back and forth between the scene now unfolding on the porch and L's own concerned expression.

Glancing over his shoulder, L can see Matt and Mello arguing animatedly (though Mello's gun never wavers from B's head, smart boy), yet he feels strangely detached from the scene. He knows that this big, this is vital, he needs to deal with this immediately—but he finds himself wavering, wishing that this heavy burden wasn't on his shoulders.

Frankly, he finds himself wishing that he could just stay here in the car with Light.

And honestly, why shouldn't he? B certainly isn't going anywhere. And Light needs him right now.

So without knowing exactly what he's going to do, he clambers into the backseat of the car and waits. An idea starts to form in his mind—something he can do for Light, and instead of trying to explain why he needs to leave and take care of the situation, all he does is sit and wait.

Gradually, Light seems to realize first that he's there at all, and second that he isn't actually going anywhere. And slowly, his breathing slows and he begins to relax until he finally stops shivering all together. After a moment of silence in the car, he takes a deep breath and turns to L. "It's okay," he says. "I'm okay. You can go deal with him now."

L thinks that he should take Light's request seriously, but instead he lets out a short, humorless laugh. "I don't want to go deal with him," he says, his voice low and serious. "I want to stay here with you."

Light looks down, and L can see a trace of embarrassment on his features. "It's okay, L, really," he says.

"No, it isn't," L says, and then after a moment of thought he adds gently, "You aren't okay."

Light shakes his head vehemently and still refuses to look up. "Please, don't," he chokes out. "I can't take it."

L frowns and reaches out, resting on hand on Light's shoulder and using the other to gently turn Light's face towards him. He needs to see Light's expression, needs to see what's going on behind those deep, haunted eyes. "What can't you take?" he asks.

Light shakes his head again, his eyes pleading. And as L reads the desperate shame and humiliation and almost . . . revulsion on his face, he suddenly thinks he might understand.

"You can't take my kindness," he half-asks. "Is that it? You don't feel like you deserve it."

Light shakes his head. "I don't deserve _you_," he whispers back.

"Light, you don't owe me anything," L says, guessing at what Light might really be trying to say.

Light laughs then, and though there's no humor in it, L flinches a bit anyway. He still can't take that laughter—it reminds him too strongly of B. "I owe you _everything_, L," Light says. "How can you say I don't owe you?"

"Listen to me, Light," L says. "You have no idea what you've given me. I promise you that whatever you think I've given you, you more than make up for it."

"Me?" Light demands in disbelief. "I've given you nothing but a headache, I'm sure. That, and a lot of trouble."

L is taken aback by the loathing in Light's tone. After a moment, though, he realizes that it is not directed at him. "Light, do you think that I would have worked so hard to get you back if you were nothing but trouble to me?" L asks softly.

"I have no idea why you wanted me back," Light snaps, and his voice is so full of self-revulsion that L feels his chest tighten and he tries to swallow the feeling down so he can focus better on the conversation at hand. Then, quieter, Light adds, "I don't know why you'd want me at all."

L's chest begins to ache and his hands tremble slightly as he hears that. _Please_, he thinks, _please don't let me be too late. Please let me be able to fix him. _

There is a pause, and then L says, "Light, look at me."

Light shakes his head and closes his eyes.

"Please," L adds. "Light, please look at me."

Light shakes his head harder, but after a moment, he looks up and meets L's eyes, his own bright and wide. "It's okay," he manages before L can say anything else. "Please, I'm fine, just . . . go take care of B."

L shakes his head, firmly. "I don't care about _B_," he says, making the name a curse. Light really needs to get this through his head. "I know it's not okay, Light, and I'm certainly not going anywhere. I don't think I could care _less_ about what happens to him. I only care about _you_."

"Why?" Light demands.

L thinks for a moment. What is the best way to answer that question? He knows the answer, of course—but will it burden Light to hear? He can feel himself pulling back, away from the possible rejection and the hurt, but then he stop and steels himself. Matt was right. Above almost anything else, what Light needs right now is total honesty. L tried hiding things from him for his own good, and look how well that turned out. Finally, he sighs. Better bite the bullet then. "I love you, Light," he says. "How can I not?" He feels lighter, now, having said it, and he takes a deep breath and waits for Light's response.

But Light only shakes his head and, "Please don't," he manages to say. His breathing has grown ragged again and L watches as Light twists his hands together in nervousness or fear.

"I do," L tells him, voice almost angry. But then he swallows the frustration and continues in a kinder voice. Light needs honesty right now, but it doesn't mean he needs to deal with L's aggression. "I do, and absolutely nothing you say or do is going to change it." There, see if Light can squirm his way out of that one.

"Stop it!" Light finally bursts out. "Stop it, why are you doing this, saying this? You don't even know me—you don't know what I've done-"

"What don't I know?" L challenges. "I know you, Light." What can Light have possibly done that's worse than killing off a sizable portion of the human race? If L loves him in spite of that, then what does Light think he can say to change it?

"You don't know anything," Light hisses, and his eyes are narrow and cruel. His hands fold into each other and he leans forward as he snaps, "I slept with him, L." As soon as the words are out, though, Light stops and turns away from him. His next words sound hollow and haunted. "I slept with him and I let myself think that he was you."

L . . . L can honestly say he is floored. Light's voice is so, so empty, and for a moment, L honestly considers leaving. He's done his best; no one can say he hasn't. Even the great detective L has his limits though, right? This is . . . this is almost too much for him to handle right now. But there is something in Light's voice—some trace of regret or pity or perhaps it is just the pain in his open and twisted expression that makes L stop. Slowly, he nods his head and buckles down. He will just have to address this later, when Light doesn't look so frail and breakable. Light needs him, and he will have plenty of time to deal with the horror that that simple sentence provokes later. "Is that it?" he asks, and he is proud that his tone is clean and free from any of the revulsion he feels.

At that, Light's head snaps up and he stares at L in shock. "What?" he finally demands, and L has a feeling that Light is trying to push him away, push him out of the car so he doesn't have to deal with all the truth that's in between them now.

"Is that all you've got?" L rephrases. "Because I've heard worse Light; and I don't care."

"Of course you care-"Light begins angrily.

"No!" L says fiercely. "I don't care, Light! Please understand—nothing that you can say will make me hate you."

Light recoils at this, and then looks down in defeat again. L reaches out a hand and gently strokes the hair at the base of Light's neck, an action that Light doesn't even respond to. For a moment, the car is silent. L closes his eyes for just a moment and enjoys the soft, silky texture under his fingers. _If only_, he thinks. _If only you hadn't run. If only I hadn't driven you to-_

"I don't understand," Light whispers, interrupting L's train of thought. "Why?"

Finally, he's getting past that jagged exterior. L smiles a little, albeit sadly. "I don't really understand either," he admits. _Honesty, _he reminds himself, even as he feels uncomfortable at admitting to Light that he doesn't understand something. "But I'm not going to leave you, Light."

Light sighs and finally gives up resisting. He tried, for L's sake he tried—but L wouldn't take the bait and he's tired of trying not to be selfish. He's tired of fighting when all he really wants is L. "I love you," he admits quietly. "I'm sorry for you that it's true, but I do."

L releases a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding, and relief floods through him, washes over him. "I'm so glad," he says. "I'm going to fix all this, Light."

Light laughs a little, bitterly. "I don't think-"

L doesn't give him the chance to finish. Instead, he curls his fingers into Light's shirt and jerks him forward, presses his lips to Light's hard.

For a moment, Light tries to pull away, one side of his mind screaming at him that this is wrong, he can't let this happen, he owes L too much—but then the other side that loves L and doesn't care about anything else tells that side to shut the hell up, and he kisses back for all he's worth.

L's hands come up gently and rest on either side of Light's face, stroking softly as he kisses once, twice, a dozen times, as many as he wants because Light is _his_ now and no one is going to take that away from him.

Light kisses back, and even though he was afraid that it might, his mind never once strays from the idea that this is L, this is the man who loves him and who . . . who he loves back.

Finally, L pulls away and presses his forehead to Light's. "I will fix you," he promises.

"I believe you," Light whispers, barely audibly. And the strange thing is . . . he does.

L pulls away and glances towards the house. "Do you feel up to handling this, or should we just go in the back way?"

Light also looks towards the porch. "I can do this," he says after a moment's thought. "As long as I don't have to say or do anything, I can handle this."

"Of course you don't need to say anything," L agrees. "Why would you? Don't worry, Light; I will take care of everything."

Light nods. "Okay," he says. "Let's go then."

L holds Light's hand tightly, leading him up the walk and onto the front porch, where Matt and Mello seem to have talked through whatever issues they'd been having.

"Hey, L," Mello says cheerfully. He does look impossibly smug, and L has to hand it to him—he has a right to.

L looks down and his eyes trail over B. He takes in the ropes that are cutting into his arms and ankles, as well as the gag that is keeping B from scaring the hell out of Light right now. And finally, he looks into those red eyes, which as usual make his own mortality flash before him.

"Well," he finally says, "I see you at least had the sense to gag him."

"Little fucker wouldn't shut up," Mello says, glaring down at B. "He really doesn't know when it's best to shut his mouth, despite the negative reinforcement I was providing."

"Trying to train him, Mel?" Matt asks dubiously. "I think it's a bit late for that."

"Oh, I don't know," L says. He's making a monumental effort not to look back at Light—looking at him is all he finds himself wanting to do, if only to make sure that he really is there, that it isn't another dream. "If it involves beating him senseless, I think that at least someone would walk away satisfied."

Matt laughs. "I'll volunteer," he offers.

"Don't worry, Matty," Mello says. "I've already taken care of it."

"I can see that," Matt says wryly. "The bandages are kind of a dead giveaway, Mello."

"So what do you want to do with him?" Mello asks, looking at L.

"You're the one who caught him," L says. "What do you want to do with him, Mello?"

Mello shrugs. "If you don't care, I can kill him right now," he says, and L winces.

"Let's avoid murdering on the front porch, shall we?" he reasons. "No need to get blood where company walks."

"You want me to move him around to the back?" Mello asks, and L smiles.

"No, let's just move him into one of the prison cells in the basement," L says.

"You rock, L," Matt says, seizing B by the back of his collar and hauling him up to his feet. "Come on, you bastard," he says conversationally. "Let's get you situated."

* * *

An hour later, when everything was so much clearer, L just has one more question: why on earth B would give himself away like that?

* * *

An hour and ten minutes later, when the floor and walls of one of his holding cells is covered in blood and his body is still stinging from the aftershocks of adrenaline, L understands that too.

* * *

An hour and ten minutes prior to the previous scene, L, Matt, and Mello are all facing a tied up and no longer gagged B, who will not stop laughing hysterically. L and Mello stand before him, with Matt in the background, watching, making no move to join in the interrogation—it isn't really his thing, and L and Mello have a much bigger bone to pick with B anyway. Light is upstairs-he didn't want anything to do with B, and L quite agreed that it would be better that he just take his medication and sleep.

"What the hell is so funny?" Mello demands finally, even though L had warned him not to speak without L's permission.

B immediately shuts up and stares at Mello with wide eyes, as though he'd just realized they were there.

"Mihael," he says, tilting his head to one side. His arms twitch in their bonds, and L has no doubt that he's dying to be free. "I have a question for you, you know."

"I have a number of them for you," L reminds him, and B's gaze jerks over to him.

"L," he breathes, and a wide, insane grin spreads across his face. "You're here, that's really wonderful. I didn't want to have to tell anyone without you here."

"What are you talking about, B?" L asks calmly. _And can we wrap this up quickly?_ he adds in his mind. _I have to get back to Light._

"I'm _talking_ about my plans, L, of course," B tells him. His head is still tilted to one side as he looks up from the chair he's tied to, and it makes him look strangely innocent and almost child-like. L shudders a little, and B's grin widens.

"What plans?" Mello asks. His gun is still out, and L considers asking him to put it away, but upon further consideration, he decides it's safe enough to keep there.

"My plans," B repeats. "My plan."

L thinks he understands what B is waiting for, so he walks forward and takes the only other chair in the room. "What plan, B?" he asks, and B grins and tilts his head the other way.

"_To destroy you_," he hisses, and L nods. That's what he thought.

"You failed, though," he says, and B's head drops down on his chest.

"Something went wrong," B says distantly. "He wasn't supposed to be dead."

"You mean Crowley," L guesses, and B's eyes snap towards him. Slowly, B looks away from L's gaze and instead he looks up, above L's head, and begins to laugh.

"Why didn't I notice before?" B demands, still laughing. "How could I _not_? Oh, oh, oh, L, oh, well-played."

L gives him a sparing smile. "I'm glad you get it," he says.

"Of course I do," B breathes, and he looks a little in awe. "You really are better," he admits and although his tone is bitter and ugly, he still smiles through it.

"Well, I sure as hell don't understand!" Mello snaps, and B looks back at him.

"Crowley," B says as the cell door opens. Before L can stop him, Light walks in just as B says, "L killed Crowley."

Light freezes and stares at B before turning to L. "No, you didn't," he whispers at the same time Mello demands, "How?"

B looks expectantly at L, who shakes his head. "Not till I get your story, Beyond. I want to know about everything."

"Oh, everything?" B asks.

"Stop it!" Light shouts. Trembling, he turns on L. "_You _killed him?" Light demands.

"Not right now, Light," L insists, knowing that this will hurt Light, but also _needing _to know what B's going to say.

"It all comes down to Misa Amane," B admits, and even Light is distracted by that.

"What does anything have to do with Misa?" Light asks.

"Light, it's so good to see you again," B tells him, and Light shudders. "How is the scar I gave you healing?"

"Shut up, B," Light snaps. "What about Misa?"

"Her shinigami," B says, and a wide grin splits his face. "Remember what you told me in the asylum?"

Light shakes his head, but in reality, he _does _remember.

"You told me her shinigami was obsessed with her—that she would _kill _for her."

"Oh, no," Light whispers, remembering the conversation—the information he'd given B, only because he wanted to be left alone.

"Yes," B hisses. "You said it was the only way to kill a shinigami, and I've never killed one of those before. So I tried my hand at it."

"But it wasn't you who tried to kill Misa all those years ago," L says, and everyone looks at him, surprised. "Of course I kept tabs on the second Kira," he says. "And when she filed a police report about a mugger who tried to kill her, of course I noticed."

"You never said," Light manages in a strangled voice.

"Light, please," L says, turning to face him. "Please, let me explain later."

Light looks away, and B begins to laugh, making everyone in the little room flinch. "Yes, Light," B says, "we don't have time for your insecurity right now."

"Shut _up_, B!" Light shouts, and the room is silent for a brief, blessed moment.

"Light, I couldn't tell you." L is the first to speak. "What would I have said? You don't care about her anyways."

Light shrugs, and B adds, "Plus, he wouldn't have wanted you to catch on that he was still keeping tabs on everyone from the Kira case."

"What?" Light demands, looking back at L, who almost laughs at the indignant look on his face. L's patience is fucking _done _right now.

"Please, Light," he snaps. "Like I wouldn't keep tabs on everyone. You know me better than that. Why don't we get back to the fact that you told B all about shinigami?"

Light's cheeks flush and he says, "Perhaps if someone had done a little fact-checking, I wouldn't have been tossed to rot into the same asylum as him!"

L begins to snap out a reply, but he is interrupted by B's raucous laughter. "Perfect!" B declares between gasps of laughter.

L takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. He cannot afford to hurt Light like this. "I'm sorry," he says. "Later?"

Light shrugs, but, "Fine," he mutters, so L turns his attention back towards B.

"You sent that mugger after Misa Amane?" he guesses, and B grins.

"It was the only way to get a Death Note," he says.

"Why did you need a Death Note?" Mello asks. "You don't have any problem killing people with your bare hands, from what I can tell."

"Look who's talking," B snaps back, and Mello snaps his mouth shut. The shame and anger in the room ratchets up another notch.

"Why would you need one?" L asks.

"For _him_," B says, nodding towards Light, who glances up and then away.

Everyone is silent for a moment, and then Matt says quietly, "You needed it to lure Light away, didn't you?"

"Exactly, Mail," B says with an approving grin, to which Matt just rolls his eyes.

"But what about Crowley?" L asks. "How did you secure his involvement?"

"What do you mean?" B asks back.

"The murders," Mello fills him in. "The MO was always the slashed ankles just like Light's."

B really laughs at that, a hearty, heavy laugh that echoes in the little room, and Light is the first to really get it.

"It was_ you_," Light realizes, and the others turn to look at him. Light looks back at all of them. "B knew all about my ankles—he was the one who killed all those people and sliced through their Achilles' tendons to make L and I think it was Crowley."

"And to lure L away from the house, don't forget that," B adds, still grinning.

"Wait," says Mello, "so where was Crowley in all this?"

"In a little apartment in Chicago," B explains patiently. "I told him what I was planning on doing—and told him that he could be the one to kill Light."

"But how did you get Light to go to Crowley's apartment?" L asks.

"The address in the safety deposit box!" Light says. "You planted it there!"

"I saw the bank account number and passcode Misa Amane had given you," B says lazily. "I just replaced it with one of my own."

"Why are you telling us all this?" Matt asks quietly, and L looks back at him approvingly. It is very much like Matt, to ask a question that is vital but which none of the rest of them would have thought of.

"Because I _lost_," B snarls viciously, dropping the act for once. There is a beat of silence, and then B picks back up the mask and grins. "And to the victor go the spoils, right L?" he asks, tipping his head towards L.

"But then . . . but that still doesn't explain how Crowley died," Light says softly, and B looks expectantly at L, who sighs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded up sheet of lined paper, and hands it over to Light.

Light takes it with trembling fingers and reads aloud: "Matthias Crowley, dies of a heart attack immediately."

Mello turns to L in shock. "You actually killed him?" he demands. "Where the hell did you even get a Death Note?"

"It was Misa's," L says. "I burned Light's so he would lose his memories—but I couldn't very well let Misa keep hers. So I confiscated it."

"Why wouldn't you burn that too, though?" Matt asks.

L looks at Light, gauging his reaction to all this, but all he can see is a streak of red-hot pain and dark betrayal on his features, and L flinches.

"Yes, L," B chimes in, "tell them why you couldn't burn it!"

"What if I needed it?" L whispers into the silent, silent room. "What if something happened—something like Crowley? I couldn't just get rid of it."

"Oh my God, you're as bad as me," Light finally says after a moment of silence.

"Hardly," L snaps. "Crowley is the only one I ever killed." He sighs, and then looks up at Light. "Do you see what I was talking about earlier, Light? We're even now. I was going to tell you all this, I promise-I just never got the chance."

Light does not reply, does not even look at him, but after a moment, he sighs and looks over at L.

L never does get to hear what he's about to say, though, because B chooses that moment to slip out of the ropes tying him to the chair and to sweep Mello's feet out from under him, stealing the gun in the process.

There is a stunned moment of silence, until L starts forward and B fires the gun just shy of his head. "Don't move, Lawliet," he says, training the gun on Light.

Light swallows hard and holds still right where he is. Damn it, he did not come all this way just to die at B's hands!

"Leave him, B," L says calmly. "Isn't it me you want?"

B retrains the gun on L. "As a matter of fact, yes, I think it is," he says, and clicks the safety off.

There is a horrible pause and then, "You know," Mello says contemplatively, and his tone is so strange that it actually makes L look away from the gun that is currently pointing at his own head.

B's eyes flicker over to Mello and he holds his gaze for a moment.

Slowly, Mello nods. "You do know," he says.

"Hmm?" B asks languidly, as though he has all the time in the world.

"You know exactly who you're going to shoot, and it's not him," Mello says calmly.

B is silent and still for a moment and then his grin returns and the gun moves its metal eye from L to Mello, who nods.

"Better," Mello says.

"Mello, shut the hell up!" Matt shouts.

"It's okay, Matt," Mello says, and his tone is all wrong. It's dripping and syrupy and like a sweet-sour honey. "He knows who he's going to shoot."

"Shut up!" Matt insists. "You can't-"

B fires into the ceiling of the cell, startling them all, and Matt falls silent as the gun is retrained on Mello again.

"Come on," Mello says, taking a step forward. B's eyes flicker, and L thinks it might actually be uncertainty that he sees in those blood-red depths. "Come _on_," Mello urges. "Make a choice, Beyond."

"I think I do know," B says, his tone distant.

"Of course you do," Mello says briskly. "It's what I would do, B, and we're the same, remember?"

"Mello!" Matt shrieks.

"Matt, shut up!" Mello snaps, actually looking _away _from the gun for a moment.

"The same," B repeats.

"You said it yourself, on the way here, before I had to gag you," Mello reminds him. "We're the same, different from everyone else who's ever come from Whammy's. We're the only ones who would do the _unexpected_, remember?"

B grins. "The only ones crazy enough to push the envelope."

Mello answers his smile and L is suddenly very afraid of being stuck in a death trap with two madmen instead of one. Mello takes another step forward. "The only ones who understand. And I think you get it, right?"

For a moment, B is still; then, so slowly that L's muscles are seizing and there's a vein in his throat jumping, the gun begins to rise away from Mello and towards B's own temple. "You're right; I do understand," B says.

Then, just as L starts forward, the gun jerks all the way back, and fires.

* * *

A/N: HOLY COW is it just me or was that a TON of information? Sorry about that, but you all needed to know! And it was about time I had some explanation after leading you all on so much! Also, I will never again attempt to write a scene in which there are five different characters that all need to have about equal say in what's going on. It's just . . . way too much. I hope it turned out all right, though! Coming up next: angst for Light, anger for L, and a mystery too big for Soichiro to solve alone.

Okay, but seriously, you guys rock! I was super insecure about the last chapter, but all your wonderful reviews helped me feel a ton better-hence, this chapter being published so quickly! All of the specific reviews really helped me see the good in the chapter, and although I think it's still one of my weaker ones, I suppose it got the job done and I can always rewrite it later! Sorry that Disorder is getting neglected, I'm just really enjoying myself with Silence! I promise though that I'm working on Disorder right now and it should be out very soon. Anyways, if you liked the chapter, or if you have any questions (and I do imagine that some of you must have questions!), review! I will do my best to clarify the chapter-unless I'm planning on clarifying it later in the story, in which case I am very sorry but I cannot help you. XD


	20. Kira

**Part 20 - Kira**

**Published 07.24.11**

* * *

Before anyone else recovers, and with the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears, Matt whips around and searches frantically, almost blindly, until his eyes land on Mello. The first thing he does is breathe a sigh of relief because Mello was wonderfully alive and with B dead, there is nothing threatening that anymore. The second thing he does is stumble over to Mello, grip his upper arm, hard, and march both of them out of there.

Deaf to Mello's protests—literally, Mello's words are nothing more than so much white noise, unable to compete with the roaring in his ears—Matt steers them upstairs and when he has finally reached the only place he feels safe in this goddamn house (his supercomputer room), he tosses Mello down on the couch and stares at him.

Mello stares right back, apparently perturbed by Matt's uncharacteristic behavior.

Luckily, Matt doesn't give a fuck about that.

After staring at him for a moment more, intently, Matt finally can't hold it in any longer. "What. just. happened," he demands. He pauses, waiting for Mello's answer, then realizes he isn't finished. "You could have _died _Mels, what were you fucking thinking, baiting him like that?"  
"It was a calculated risk-" Mello begins.

"Don't give me that Near-logic crap," Matt bites out, the venom in his words surprising even him. "What the hell were you trying to prove in there? That you're smarter, better—what?"

"I wasn't-"

Matt still can't hear him and in the back of his mind, he wonders what the hell is wrong with him, screaming at Mello like this. "What the hell is wrong with _you_?" he demands, making the question an answer to the one in his mind. "I might expect that kind of shit from L or something, but you could have been killed, Mel, he _could have killed you!"_

While Matt shouts and rants, Mello just stares at him in amazement. He's never seen Matt like this, not even when he'd been in the Mafia and had faced death every single day. What the hell is wrong with _him_? No, what the hell is wrong with _Matt_? He's acting all crazy, like he can't even hear him, like he can't calm down, even if he wanted to. Mello licks his lips, almost nervously, and sighs. Time to try again, since it seems like Matt might be calming down.

"Matt-" he tries, only to be cut off again.

Mello doesn't see exactly what the big deal is. He knew exactly what Beyond would do—he just needed someone to guide him to the edge of the cliff. And Mello was in the perfect position to do just that. So he just led him to the most fucked up conclusion he could think of—and then B did the jumping all on his own.

But no matter how much he tries to gently explain this to Matt, Matt doesn't seem to be picking up on his signals. And usually, when Mello needs to speak, Matt listens. Mello is actually getting a little concerned at this point—and pissed off. Matt's been shouting for a while and has begun to pace. His voice is getting hoarse and his eyes are manic, almost wild.

Finally, as Matt curses at him again, Mello has had enough and he snaps out, loud enough to be heard, "_Mail!_"

Finally, this cuts across Matt's hysteria, and he stops and whips around to face Mello again. The room is very, very quiet for a few excruciating moments. Matt stares at him, and Mello thinks that his expression is torn somewhere between rage and terror. Then, to Mello's horror, Matt sinks down in the nearest chair, and begins to cry.

"Matt?" Mello asks, all his anger disappearing the face of such raw emotion. Matt's head is bowed and he grips his hair as his shoulders shake. "Matty?" Mello tries again as he gets up and moves to kneel beside Matt.

Matt looks up through a fringe of dark red hair, and when he sees that Mello is close to him, he too falls to his knees and embraces Mello, the force of it almost enough to knock Mello to the floor and certainly enough to knock the wind out of him.

Mello hesitantly puts his arms around his best friend, a little afraid Matt is going to start yelling at him again, and gradually he becomes aware that Matt is mumbling something into his shoulder as he cries. Mello tries to pull back to hear better, but Matt's grip tightens, so Mello falls back into passivity, figuring that someone in their relationship has to do it, and even though it's usually Matt's job, he doesn't mind it for now.

"Matt," he says softly, "I can't understand what you're saying.

"It-doesn't-matter," Matt manages to say clearly, words punctuated with choked sobs. "I don't even—know what—I'm saying, Mels. I was just—I can't believe you'd—you could have—_died_, and I—I couldn't do—anything."

"Matt, Matty, it's okay now," Mello says, still a bit bewildered by Matt's outburst. Matt is never like this. Mello is like this—he's the one with the mood swings and the uncontrolled outbursts of emotion. Matt is calm, Matt is steady. Mello needs him to be like that. Right now, though, it looks like Mello's going to need to be the steady one. He says, "I didn't die, B's dead, it's all okay."

Matt jerks away when he hears that, and stares at Mello with red-rimmed eyes. "It's not _okay_," he chokes out, his voice hoarse and heavy with emotion. He's mostly stopped crying, which is a relief to Mello. But he's in for another shock, he realizes, as Matt's expression changes gradually from relief to anger, and suddenly Mello's laying on the floor, his jaw aching and he realizes that Matt just fucking _punched him_.

"What the _hell_?" he demands, at once so furious and so surprised that he can't even move. "Matt—what the hell?"

Matt has never punched him before, not really—not even when times were bad, not even when Mello was in the Mafia and all the blood and ugliness and guilt would haunt him until he'd lose control and hurt Matt till his head was spinning.

"Don't ever do that again," Matt hisses, glaring at him from halfway across the room. He's standing with his arms folded over his chest, and Mello has to admit that from his knees, with an aching jaw, that he makes quite an imposing picture.

"Don't ever do _what_?" Mello snaps back. "Bait a mass murderer into killing himself, all while not really putting anybody's life in danger? Sure, Matt, I won't do that again."

"You know exactly what I mean," Matt snaps at him.

"No, actually," Mello says, genuinely confused (he does not like the feeling), "I don't."

"Don't—don't do _that_," Matt manages, his voice tapering off at the end. "Don't—don't risk that Mels. I can't—I can't stand it anymore."

"Matt, I have to take risks, or else-"  
"Else what?" Matt snaps, his voice suddenly full of fire again. "Or else you'll lose? Or else you won't measure up to L? Damn it, Mello, I'm goddamn sick of you always trying to measure up to someone or trying to outdo somebody."

"I wasn't going to say that!" Mello spits out, venom on his tongue. "I was going to say, or else I'll never accomplish anything."

"And why do you feel like you have to accomplish anything?" Matt says, his voice rising. "Why isn't being _alive_ ever enough for you?"

"I'm sorry if not all of us can just stop caring like you," Mello says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Sorry if I actually have aspirations and goals, instead of wandering aimlessly, wasting an extraordinary mind on video games and pointless hacking!"

"Augh, I can't stand to be around you right now!" Matt shouts, and Mello is once again surprised by the power behind that voice. He had no idea that Matt could get like this. And before he can voice the sentiment, he realizes that Matt is stalking out of the room.

Before he can slam the door on his way out, Matt feels Mello latch onto his arm and pull him bodily back into the room.

"Let go of me!" Matt says, struggling to tug his arm away from Mello's iron grip.

"Fine!" Mello shouts back, throwing Matt's arm away from himself. Then his voice is calmer when he says, "Now it's my turn to talk"

"What could you possibly have to say?" Matt asks sullenly. He angles his body away from Mello, creating a barrier between them that hurts Mello more than he'd care to admit. He's thought it before, but to reiterate: Matt is _never _like this. What is he supposed to do with him, Mello wonders. He's oscillating between the idea of acting kind and caring and hoping Matt will snap out of it, or snapping back until one of them wins the shouting match.

"Why the hell are you acting like this?" Mello demands before he can think further. Guess he's going with option two, then.

"You could have died!" is Matt's angry reply.

"So you attack me verbally and physically, then say you can't stand to be with me?" Mello asks.

"I-"

"Nope, I'm not done yet," Mello cuts in. "I knew what I was fucking doing, Matt," he insists. "I know Beyond, probably better than anyone except you. And if you'd just stop and _think_ for a second, you'd realize that B's suicide was the only thing he could do to prove his point."  
That's enough to shake Matt out of his defensive position and he turns to face Mello, dropping his arms from their folded position. "What are you talking about?" Matt demands. "His _point ?_"

Mello laughs, hollowly, and Matt's eyes narrow. "Maybe you don't get him as well as you'd like to think," he suggests. "I get it—get him, Matty. I understand where he's coming from—I've hated the world's greatest detective before too, and I've wanted to die before too. And if I'd thought for one minute that L would actually care about my death, I might have done it-" to this, Matt makes a choking noise, which Mello ignores. "But that's B's mistake—thinking that L's really gonna care that's he's gone. L was so important to him, and he was so self-involved, that he couldn't imagine that L might not feel the same way." After a moment of silence, Mello takes a deep breath. "There," he says. "I'm done."

It is quiet for a very long time as Matt seems to regain his composure. Mello waits patiently—or at least as patiently as he can pull off, which is not at all. After a few moments of tapping his foot and drumming his fingers, he finally snaps, "Damn it, Matt, say something!"

Matt would very much like to say something, but his head is spinning so fast he can't really grab hold of any one thought. He's been running on adrenaline up until now, and now that his body has finally realized he's not in any danger, he's feeling tired and worn down. Still, his mind turns in circles and his body begins to shiver from the excess adrenaline still thrumming through his bloodstream. As Mello opens his mouth to say something else—likely something insulting and profanity-laced, Matt gathers up enough energy and presence of mind to shake his head. "Just—give me a minute, Mels," he asks hoarsely. Grimacing, he notes distantly that his throat is sore. He waits another minute for his mind to finally catch up to what's going on. He can't _think, _damn it all, yet at the same time all he can do is think. And he can't stop the horrified litany: _He could have died, Mello could have died, he could be dead right now, he could have died. _Finally, he collapses back onto a sofa and lets his head fall back, never taking his eyes off Mello, who is still watching him warily and with no small amount of impatience in his sharp blue eyes. Gradually, as Matt pulls himself together, he actually begins to smile, just a little. "You bastard," he finally says, sounding exhausted. "I can't believe you pulled that off."

Mello grins and his body relaxes at the return of Matt's easy speech. "I knew I could, Matty," he says earnestly. "I _knew_ what he was going to do."

Matt's smile fades. "Let's just not mention this again for a while," he suggests. "Could you do that? I need time to process, y'know?"

Mello's glad to hear a casual tone sneaking its way into Matt's speech. It means he's regaining control. "How long is a while?" he asks. "'Cause L is gonna be up here soon, and he's gonna want to lecture me too."

"I doubt that," Matt says with a tired smile. He manages to sit up as Mello sinks down onto the couch beside him. "You saved his life, and Light's. He's not gonna say anything but 'thank you,' I bet."

"Id take that bet," Mello says, turning towards Matt grabbing his hand.

Matt turns to him and kisses him, hard. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against Mello's and whispers, "Sorry for hitting you. And yelling at you."

Mello kisses him again. "It's cool," he says. "I get it, you were scared."

Matt smiles ruefully. "More scared than I think I've ever been in my whole life."

"Really?" Mello asks dubiously. "Even when I was in the Mafia and I risked dying every day?"

"I never saw a gun pointed at you, Mels," Matt reminds him. "I'm really good at ignoring stuff, remember?"

Mello did remember. "It's okay now," he says. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Matt says with a tired smile. "I'm okay."

* * *

The moment Quillsh Wammy hears L's voice over the telephone, he knows something is horribly wrong.

He'd known that L was finally bringing Light home, but L had asked him to keep his distance; Wammy imagined it was because L and Light had a lot to work out and his presence would be a distraction at best.

So, even though he'd been anxious to see Light and make sure the young man was all right and recovering and that Beyond had done no lasting harm, he'd respected L's wishes and had holed himself up at the orphanage, doing little tasks to keep himself occupied.

When his phone rings, though, he jumps up as fast as his old joints will allow; he has to admit, he is surprised to be getting a call this early. The thought makes his heart sink a little, and when he hears L's voice through the receiver, his breath catches and he feels his stomach twist.

"Wammy," L says, and his voice is so matter-of-fact and toneless and just . . . so like L-the-letter that Wammy knows something awful must have happened. "I'd like to request your presence back at the house."

"L, what happened?" he asks, his voice coming out breathless and twisted. He is already moving to retrieve his car keys when L's response floors him and makes him freeze in the middle of the hallway.

There is a pause and Wammy hears L say something—but the sound is muffled, indicating that L must be holding a hand over the receiver. Then L is back and announces, "Beyond Birthday is dead. I require your assistance here, as there are a number of things that need to be taken care of and I cannot do all of them and keep an eye on Light."

"Is Light all right?" Wammy asks, concerned at L's utter lack of emotion over such an announcement. He starts moving again, towards the garage.

"Light is-" L begins, but his voice falters for the first time in the conversation. Wammy hears him take a deep breath and then he replies, "Light is adequate."

"Adequate?" Wammy repeats. "Please, L, tell me what's going on."

"I told you," L says, a bit of agitation creeping into his voice at having to repeat himself. "B is dead. Light is not injured more than he was upon arrival."

"Should I bring medical supplies?" Wammy asks, pausing in front of the infirmary.

L pauses and then answers, "Yes, I think so. This house has some, but not all of the supplies found at the orphanage. Please also bring sedatives—I have a feeling they may be necessary."

"Of course," Wammy says, all business now that he has something to do. "Anything else?"

"No-wait, yes," L says. "Bring several gallons of bleach."

"Bleach?" Wammy repeats, wanting to make sure he has heard L correctly.

L's voice twists very slightly as he says, "Bleach. To clean up the mess B made."

Before Wammy can respond in the affirmative, his line goes dead and he sets himself to the task of gathering his supplies and leaving.

The drive takes him just under an hour, and in that time he has imagined almost every possible scenario in which B would have died and left a mess that would take gallons of bleach to clean up. He briefly considers calling L and just _asking, _but that would be much too easy and convenient, and he imagines that L probably has a lot on his hands with Light right now.

To his surprise, though, when he arrives at the house, it is not L that greets him at the door, but Light, who looks the worse for wear. He is thin, his eyes seem dark and haunted, and his teeth are set. However, when he sees Wammy walk through the door, he manages a small smile.

"I'm so glad to see you, alive and well," Wammy tells Light before the younger man can do or say anything else. He sets down the supplies, and puts his arms around Light. He can feel him stiffen at first, then after a moment, Light relaxes and hugs him back.

"I'm glad to see you too," Light says quietly. After another moment, Wammy pulls away and takes a deep breath. Displays of emotion are rare for him—at least for anyone besides L—but he has truly come to care about this young man who means so much to his ward. "I'm sorry," Light begins, the words coming out stilted.

Wammy smiles at him, despite his worry. "You don't have to worry about apologizing to me, Light. I have no interest in judging you for your actions."

Light looks a little taken aback, and Wammy wonders if it is because he truly expected him to come in and yell at him for running away with B. If so, the younger man doesn't have a very good grasp of his character at all. To distract him, Wammy asks, "Where is L?"

Light's eyes darken a little more at that, and he gestures to the hallway on his right. "In one of the bedrooms," he says. "He's . . . I think he's a little shocked."

Wammy looks at him discerningly. "Aren't you?" he asks.

Light smiles at him tiredly. "I think that 'relieved' is a better adjective for what I'm feeling right now."

Wammy turns and heads towards the room. "How is he?" he asks.

"He's not really responding to me," Light admits, following closely behind him. "He called you and-" he pauses as Wammy pushes the door open. "And then he's been like that."

Wammy surveys the scene. L is sitting on the bed in his usual crouch, his arms wrapped around his knees and his head down. He is completely immobile, giving Wammy the image of him as a very peculiar statue.

Shaking the idea away, Wammy enters and places a hand over one of L's. L does not flinch, but he does slowly raise his head.

"Wammy," he recognizes, then turns his head and looks at Light. "How are you?" he asks.

Light looks surprised and he stammers, "I-I'm fine, L."

L nods. "Good," he says, unfolding himself. "I have some work to do, and I'd appreciate it very much if you'd stay here, Light."

"Wha-you mean cleaning up B's body in the basement?" Light demands. "Like hell I'm going to just sit here. You're going to need help with that, L."

L stands and looks at Light with flat, empty eyes. "Stay here," he says. A clear order.

Light walks over to him and starts to reach towards L, then freezes halfway through the motion and lets his trembling hand fall back to his side. "What's wrong with you?" he finally asks.

L shrugs—actually _shrugs—_off Light's question. "I've just had a bit of a shock," he says.

"So have I," Light says sharply. "So has Matt, and Mello, and you don't see any of us acting like an emotionless robot."

"That's redundant," L says, almost automatically. "Robots are all emotionless."

In desperation, Light turns to Wammy. Wammy can see the panic in the young man's eyes, and he knows that if he doesn't do something, Light will break down. He might be doing better than before, but he is still fragile.

"L," Wammy says gently, reaching out and placing a hand on L's shoulder. L's eyes flicker up to meet his and Wammy thinks he might see a glimmer of emotion there for a moment before L banishes it.

"Wammy, I'm glad you're here," L says. "Did you bring the supplies I asked for?"

"Of course," Wammy says.

"Then could you please use the medical supplies to look over and fix up Light as best you can while I head down to the basement?"

"L," Wammy says, hesitating a bit before he continues. "I'd really feel more comfortable if I went with you and helped you."

"That would leave Light unsupervised," L says, frowning a little as though it just occurred to him that that would be undesirable.

"I don't need _supervision_," Light says, tone acidic and harsh. "L, why won't you let me come help you?"

L's gaze snaps over to Light's and he holds it for a long, heated moment. "Light," he finally whispers. "Don't."

Light's head jerks back a little, his eyes widening at this sudden change in L's demeanor. "Let me help," he finally says. "Please, L."

L shakes his head. "No," he says, a bit of steel creeping into his previously monotone voice.

"Why?" Light demands. Wammy takes a quiet step back; he's trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

"Because I said so," L grinds out. His hands clench as the walls he's built up slowly begin to crumble, taking his hard-won self control with them.

"That's not a reason!" Light snaps back.

Finally, L snaps. "He had everything planned out, Light!" he shouts, and Light flinches and stares at L. Forcing himself to calm down, L repeats, "He had everything planned out. He knew you and me and Matt and Mello and Crowley so well—he manipulated all of us perfectly. He saw every step and every potential problem and planned for it, made it so that each situation could not go any other way than what he had planned."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Light snaps back.

"Everything!" L says. "B has been in charge for_ weeks_ now, Light! And he's had _you_ all that time! I think that he's been in the center of things long enough!"

Realization dawns on Light's face, and hesitantly, he reaches out and this time does not pull away. He takes L's hand in his. "I'm not going anywhere, L," he says softly.

L looks away. After a moment, he gently extracts his hand from Light's. "Come if you want," he finally says. "I suppose I could use the help."

For a moment, Light looks hurt, then he nods. "Remember what you said in the car?" he asks, as they both head out the door, Wammy behind them. "That you'd fix me?"

L nods.

Light takes a deep breath. "I'm going to try to let you," he says.

* * *

Soichiro's face is frozen in an expression somewhere between incredulity and horror. "How sure are you that you saw him, Matsuda?" he finally asks.

Matsuda thinks about it, then sighs. "I can't lie to you, Chief," he says. "I saw him. And it was him, I'd bet my life on it. He was thinner, he looked tired, but . . . it was Light, sir. I know it was."

"What . . . what would _Light _be doing there, in that hotel, out of prison?" Soichiro demands, and Matsuda shakes his head.

"This is why I didn't say anything, Chief," he admits. "Because there's just no _reason_ behind it. None of this makes sense. L shows up, hunting some criminal that looks _exactly like him_, and then I see Light in a hotel minutes before it burns to the ground? And, to top it all off, the criminal escaped not long after we'd caught him—and all the security tapes and images of him have disappeared. It just . . . I'm not smart enough, sir. The clues are all there, but I can't see how they fit together."

Soichiro thinks about that for a moment, his face set into a deep frown, then he sighs heavily and looks up at Matsuda. "I don't know either, Matsuda," he admits. "But, I know someone who _will_."

Matsuda's eyes get large when he thinks about that. "You don't mean—L?"

Soichiro nods, his eyes hard as he stands up and heads to his computer. "Whatever is happening, L is at the center of it," he says. He sits down and begins to pull up his email.

"But Chief, there's no guarantee L will answer us," Matsuda protests. "He doesn't owe us anything; even if he knows exactly what's going on, why would he tell us?"

Soichiro takes a deep breath. "We don't know what's going on right now," he says. "And if we don't ask, there's no way we'll ever know. Even if there's only a very small chance of getting an answer, Matsuda, we have to try. Besides," he adds with a smile, "I'm chief of the NPA now. L needs my cooperation in his cases."

"You're going to blackmail him?" Matsuda demands, mouth hanging open at the thought of his upright superior actually resorting to illegal means to get what he wanted.

Soichiro shakes his head, smile slipping off his face. "Of course not," he says. "I'm just . . . I'm worried, Matsuda. About all of this—about-" he stops and swallows. "About my son. I need to know."

"I understand," Matsuda says. And truly, he did. Light had been important to all of them on the investigation team—none of them had ever quite recovered from the idea that Light was—had always been—Kira. "Will you let me know, Chief?" he asks. Soichiro looks up from his computer. "If L tells you, will you let me know?"

Slowly, Soichiro nods. "I think you're the only person I'd feel comfortable telling, Matsuda," he admits.

Matsuda frowns. "What about your wife?" he asks. "Or Sayu?"

A pained look crosses Soichiro's face and he closes his eyes for a moment. "I can't put them through any more hell," he confesses. "Things have never been the same since Light . . . left. It's ruined them. More than I'd like to admit. It's . . . almost ruined me, too."

Matsuda shuffles his feet, head bowed. He has never seen Soichiro like this—the news of Light's reappearance must have really shaken him.

After a moment, Soichiro looks up and gives him a small smile. "I'm sorry, Matsuda," he says. "I shouldn't be burdening you with this. I will let you know as soon as I find out anything, all right?"

Matsuda nods eagerly, glad to see his chief back in working order, so to speak. "Thanks, Chief," he says. At Soichiro's nod and dismissal, he walks out of the office-leaving Soichiro alone with the mystery of his son once again.

* * *

The first time L sees the awful wound on Light's chest, he snaps.

He has been so patient, so emotionless all day long. Beyond killed himself around 8 in the morning, and now it is nearing midnight; L is exhausted, he cannot believe it is _still _the same day. The horror of the day—of Light's confession in the car, of B's suicide, of cleaning up what was left of the body and the room besides, of debriefing Wammy and dealing with Light's tentative, stressed silence—is finally catching up to him when it happens.

"What is _that_?" he demands, staring in horror at Light's chest. He has walked in on Light changing, and instead of having the common decency to be embarrassed (and why should he, L thinks crossly, have he and Light _not _been living together? Do he and Light _not _share a mutual attraction?), he instead feels a creeping fear begin to slither down his spine.

Light jumps at his demand and looks almost guilty as he looks up at L. Glancing down, he gently touches the laceration on his chest. There is a pause, and then he says quietly, "You know what it is, L."

And L does know. It's a 'B,' carved into his skin delicately, carefully. The curves are wide and sweeping, indicating that B had time to make the letter perfect, and that Light must have laid very still for him. As he stares, his eyes take in the other injuries—bruises, scrapes, cuts that are mostly healed but suggest that Light and B had at least one serious altercation.

All this flashes through L's mind in an instant, and though it is important and he files it away, his still finds his eyes fixated on the six-inch letter 'B.'

Silence reigns for a very long time in the room, and finally Light, wincing a little, breaks it. "L," he whispers again, "please say something."

"Is it true?" L asks, before he can stop himself. "What you said in the car?"

"Which part?" Light asks. He knows which part.

"You know what I'm talking about. About you and Beyond," L says. He takes a deep breath and lets it out shakily, struggling to regain his composure. He needs to be . . . kind. Gentle. But goddamnit, with that 'B' staring him in the face, it's a great deal more difficult than he'd thought it would be. He's at the end of his patience, and that little letter—obviously intended to torment him—is grinding his considerable equanimity down to nothing. _Besides_, he thinks distantly, _isn't this what Wammy said we needed? Honesty? Real emotion? _

Granted, he understands that Wammy was most likely _not_ talking about a shouting match, which this very well could become.

Light looks down, his hands bunching the shirt in his hands. L can see a flash of white teeth as he worries at his lower lip. "Of course it's true, L," he admits quietly, "why would I have said it otherwise?"

"Why would you have said it at all?" L wants to know. God, why would Light want to torment him with images of him and B? Why wouldn't he have just kept it hidden?

Light looks up at him with blazing eyes. "You need to know exactly what you're getting yourself into with me," he says, and although his voice is dripping with disdain, L has no doubt that it is directed at Light himself.

"And what is that?" L asks.

"I'm—he's . . . I'm fucked up, L," Light finally manages to stammer.

"I know that," L says evenly. And he does know. Light is a heady mixture of cognitive dissonance and bad experiences, and if they're ever going to find a way to live together, it's going to take a long, long time.

Light's shoulders slump and he lets the shirt he was holding slip from his grasp. "What do you want?" he asks.

L's brow furrows and he examines Light carefully. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks back. Light is . . . well, L knows that he didn't exactly take B's death well and that he's been robotic and unfeeling all day, but Light is acting skittish and frightened, like he expects L to hit him.

"I mean—why are you keeping me?" Light asks. "Why did you fight to get me back? What are you expecting from me?"

"I-" L starts, but then stops himself and shakes his head. Light needs honesty, yes, but right now, what they both need is to not add on any more anger or hatred or violence to today's score. "Light," he tries again. "What I said in the car was true, too. I love you."

"That's not enough!" Light bites out. "What do you _want_?"

"I want you, here, safe," L responds, his voice a little more heated than he would have liked. Light's not going to believe that he cares deeply about him if he keeps shouting. But damn it, it's been a long, long day and L has nothing left to hold himself back with.

"_Why?_" Light demands, voice cracking. His gaze jerks up from the floor and searches out L's, desperately. His eyes search L's for emotion, for truth.

In two strides, L is across the room, and for a moment, he considers actually trying to explain the bizarre cocktail of emotions plaguing him. The guilt, the anguish, the jealousy, the affection, _everything_. Then, he realizes there might be an easier way.

Taking Light's hands gently in his, he kisses the knuckles, softly. Light's quiet gasp and involuntary flinch is almost enough to convince him to stop. But if he does, L doesn't know how else he's going to explain. So instead, he looks at Light and kisses him, just a gentle brush of lips against the corner of his mouth.

Trembling, Light looks up at L. "Please," he says. L knows he's asking to be released, but he'd like to pretend Light is asking for something else entirely.

L kisses him again, fully on the lips this time, his eyes sliding halfway closed at the immense relief spreading through him at the simple action. He can do this, now. And B cannot. He pulls away after a moment. "I'm so glad you're back," he murmurs, and kisses him again. "And I'm so angry with you." And again. Light's eyes slide closed. "I hate you for leaving me." Again. Light begins to tremble. "And when I think of B touching you . . ." L hesitates, then kisses him again, barely brushing his lips this time. Light swallows. "I can't stand it," L admits. There is a long pause while Light waits for the blow to fall; to his surprise, instead, all he gets is another kiss. "It bothers me, Light. I _hate _it. But it's not most important to me."

Light's eyes open again and he stares at L, trying to believe what the other man is saying.

"You are more important to me than what you've done," L says, voice unsteady. This time, he is the one who looks away.

"Do you really believe that?" Light asks, and his voice is hoarse and low.

L doesn't answer him for a moment; then, gently, he takes Light's face in his hands and he strokes his cheekbone with his thumb. "Yes," he murmurs, "I do."

Light tries to pull away as L moves towards him again, but L holds him still as he kisses him, harder this time; and after a moment, Light falls into the rhythm of the kiss, tilting his head, his hands lifting to tangle in L's shirt and hair. Light pulls him closer after a moment, and one of L's hands slips behind Light's head as the other travels lower, moving around to his back and then tightening and pulling Light flush against him.

Light gasps into the kiss, a soft noise that L attempts to explore further by touching a curious tongue to Light's lips, which open after a moment. L laps at the other man's mouth, entranced by the feeling that he has been missing for so long. Light groans as L begins to nip and lick at his tongue; L would have smiled at the reaction, had his mouth not been otherwise occupied.

L presses harder, feeling his body begin to warm up and thaw out from the cold, emotionless state it's been in all day. He knows he and Light have plenty to talk about; he knows the two of them have . . . _issues _that are going to need to be worked out—but right now, with the simple, wet heat of Light's mouth and the contours of his thin body pressed up against his, L can't find it in himself to care.

The kiss becomes more feverish as Light's defenses and protests fade away; L's motions are more desperate, harder, and he can feel Light responding in kind. Finally, L breaks away and presses open-mouthed kisses down Light's throat, tongue coming out to flick over the pale skin. Light moans again, softly, and his hands clench where they are tangled in L's hair. L kisses him gently, his mouth and tongue move softly across his neck and collarbone, and one of Light's hands moves to settle at L's hips, fingers clenching and convulsing there at intervals.

L can feel Light's gentle touch at the waistband of his jeans and it sparks a fire inside him, making him groan. His hands go to grip Light's waist, but as he moves to the clasp of his pants, he feels Light begin to tense and tremble and, with a sigh, realizes that this is too much, too fast.

He moves his hands back up to Light's face, stroking gently, and slowly moves back up to Light's lips, which he kisses again and again, softer and slower each time until Light's breathing has returned back to normal and he has banked the fire burning softly in the pit of his stomach.

Slowly, he pulls away, and his eyes are drawn once again to the healing cut on Light's chest. With delicate fingers, he reaches out and traces the letter.

Light's eyes fly open, and he flinches back, but L doesn't let him go and after a moment, he gives up and relaxes again.

"This is nothing," L says, placing his palm over the letter. "He is dead."

"Good riddance," Light agrees.

"And even if he weren't," L continues. "This doesn't mean you belong to him. B would have liked to think that, but he'd be wrong."

"Why?" Light asks. "Because I belong to you?"

L laughs, softly, and kisses him again for that. "No, because you're free to decide who you want to be with."

Light's eyes widen for a moment, and then he gives L a smile—the first true one L thinks he's seen in months and months. "I'm sorry," Light says, not knowing what else to say.

"Don't apologize to me again," L instructs. And before Light can say anything else, L bends down and picks up his shirt. "Come on," L says, holding it out to him. "It's been a long day. Let's get some sleep."

* * *

Light dreams.

He had hoped he wouldn't—had hoped that falling asleep with L next to him would prevent nightmares.

Still, he dreams.

The dream is curious and nebulous, and Light can't get a grip on any one image. Fog swirls around him as he turns and turns around and around, trying to get a bearing on his situation.

In the distance, he thinks he can hear the rumble of thunder—or perhaps, it's only the rumble of a train running through the subway. Light turns his head, jerks around just in time to see a train pull up beside him. He peers in through dusty windows, and then jerks away as he sees none other than himself, staring back at him with deadened eyes.

The version of him on the train is younger, Light thinks, healthier. He is sitting on one of the subway seats, hands folded gently in his lap as he speaks quietly into some sort of device. The younger Light doesn't seem to notice he has an audience, and instead keeps glancing over to the side, at a man sitting on another subway car.

Light looks over too, and studies the frightened-looking man responding on a similar device. As he watches, the man begins to write—_names_, Light thinks_, he's writing names. _

And suddenly, a streak of lighting and the scream of thunder illuminate the man's name, lighting it up in his own mind: Raye Penber.

Light is left screaming, on his knees, gripping his head and shaking it, back and forth. _Raye Penber_, he thinks, _who the hell is Raye Penber, why do I know is name, what is happening on that train, what is going on, what am I doing, how do I know him, how do I know you, Raye Penber? _

He lifts his head, despite the pain pounding through it with every heartbeat, and watches as a new scene on the train unfolds. Penber, laying on the floor of the train as he himself stands outside of the doors, smirking as Penber's eyes widen in realization.

"Kira," Light breathes, finally realizing in a corner of his mind what he is seeing. Penber clutches at his heart and reaches out, almost in supplication to the sneering boy standing in front of him. "Kira," Light says louder, the reality catching up to him and he scrambles back as the young man in front of him turns around and grins.

"I was wondering when you'd finally wake up," Kira says to him.

Light shakes his head and then grips it, hard, willing himself to wake up, to change locales, anything but facing this truth. "Why?" he asks. Because _why? Why now, why when I'm finally home, why does this matter? _

"It matters because you're finally remembering," Kira says, stalking over to him and gripping his shoulder. Light looks up into a pair of eyes identical to his own. It's strange, he notes distantly, he would have expected Kira's eyes to hold a flash of bloodlust, but instead, it's like looking into a mirror.

"Hardly," Kira snorts softly. "Look at yourself. We're hardly identical."

Light looks down, noting the scars that adorn his arms, seeing how emaciated he really is. "Why are you here?" he asks.

"I think the better question is 'how am I here?'," Kira responds, his grip tightening into something painful.

Before he can think better of it, Light shoves the hand away from himself, and he straightens. "I'm not a child," Light snaps at him. "I'm not so easily intimidated, Kira."

Kira frown and straightens as well. "I suppose not," he agrees. "The siren call of the Death Note might not be enough this time, hm?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Light demands, bracing himself as he stands.

Kira laughs. "You wanted your memories, back, Light, and here they are," he says, gesturing to his right. Light looks and stares. There are thousands of tiny photographs, suspended in the air behind Kira. As he looks closer, he realizes that although the pictures are tiny, he can see each one clearly, each memory playing out as he watches.

Almost in a trance, Light takes a step forward, but Kira's hand comes out to stop him. Light struggles against him for a moment, the air around him turning frigid and his heart beginning to ache. He _needs _those memories-they are one of only two reasons he left L for B, and the other reason is dead now. This is the only hope he has left-the only hope he has of restoring his mind to its original integrity. Kira struggles with him, then grabs his arms and jerks him around to face him.

"You want them back," Kira continues, still gripping his arms, "but have you thought about what you'll do once you have them?"

Light looks into the pair of eyes so like his own and shivers a bit. "What do you mean?" he asks.

"If your memories return, Light," Kira explains, "then so will I. We won't get to have conversations, you won't see your memories like a dream—everything will just fall into place. And you'll change. Do you know what you'll become?"

"After everything I've been through, I know I won't become _you_ again," Light sneers, coming back to himself and taking a step back so Kira is no longer touching him.

Kira laughs at that, throws back his head and laughs for a long moment. Then he snaps back to Light and the blazing anger in his eyes almost makes Light take a step back. "You shouldn't be so sure," Kira snaps. "The Death Note is stronger than you think—it might be stronger than _you_."

"L wouldn't-"

"Oh, yes, L," Kira sneers. "If you think you have issues touching him _now_, wait until _I'm _back on the scene."

"Shut up!" Light finally shouts, and Kira stares at him. "You're just a child," Light bites out. "You're a child and a murderer with delusions of grandeur and after everything I've been through, I will never return to someone like you."

Before Kira can respond, Light can hear in the distance a soft flapping sound that gets louder and louder until it is all he can hear. A shadow falls over them and the being behind him begins to laugh.

Light knows that laugh, as though from a lifetime ago.

Kira looks at him and smirks again, his eyes flashing red this time. "We'll see if that's true," he says. Then he looks back up at the shadow. "Hello, Ryuk," he says. "It's been a long time."

Light freezes at the name and then slowly begins to turn to see the monster behind him—all he sees are red eyes and the flash of white teeth before he's falling, falling-

And lands, hard in his bed, gasping for air and reaching for something beyond himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that L is gone, and he wonders what took him away. In his more immediate vision, however, Light notices that the room is unnaturally dark, and as his eyes adjust, the darkness begins to take on a form until he sees the same shadow that had haunted him in his dream.

"Wha-Ryuk?" he whispers, his voice barely audible. He hardly dares believe it.

He is rewarded with raucous laughter and then there's a soft noise as Ryuk extracts something from his belt.

"Ryuk, are you—I'm dreaming," Light finally realizes, shaking his head and sitting up. "Wake up," he mutters to himself.

Ryuk laughs, and shakes his monstrous head. He opens his mouth and although Light expects more laughter instead, "I'm bored," is what Ryuk says. He holds out the Death Note and drops it next to Light on the bed. "Now do something interesting."

* * *

A/N: Ahahahahahahaha! I have been waiting 20 chapters to write that last scene! And you guys thought the story was almost OVER! HA!

Whew, sorry about the gloating. But I seriously have been waiting quite a while to write this chapter, and I'm excited that it's finally come. And in case anyone asks why Light can see Ryuk even though he hasn't touched the Death Note, or why he's beginning to remember Kira, the answer lies in the previous chapter, where L lets Light touch a piece of the Death Note that used to belong to him.

Sorry if the chapter's kinda disjointed. I know I have a lot of pieces going on right now, but don't worry; they all come together. I'm not totally happy with this chapter, actually, but you guys have waited patiently for so long, I thought I'd at least give you something, even though it's not my best.

Anyways, I'm planning on doing some editing of this chapter later, but for now, let me know what you think! Bahari loves reviews!


	21. Contention

**Part 21 - Contention**

**Published 11.16.11**

* * *

"Light."

"Hmm?"

"Light."

"What?"

" . . . _Light._"

"_What, _L?"

"Why are you . . . _would you just _look_ at me for a damn second?"_

"_Fine._ Better?"

" . . . No, actually. Not even close."

_A sigh_. "What do you need, L?"

"That is an excellent question, Light. For starters, I'd say that I need you to tell me what on earth is going on inside your head right now."

_A long pause. _"Light?"

"_Nothing_. Just leave it, L."

"Oh, sure. I'll just _leave it alone_. We can just _ignore_ that something's horribly wrong and has been for over a week now without either of us mentioning it. Because that approach has worked so well for both of us in the past."

"Has anyone ever explained to you that dogged determination to root out other people's private affairs is more of a liability than an asset to your personality?"

"There, see? That is exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about."

"_What?"_

"You're . . . you're defensive, Light. More than you have been in a long time."

"And after my genuinely terrifying experiences over the last couple of weeks, I guess I'm not allowed any time to recover before you start in on the third degree."

"You. Are. Acting. Weird. And you know it."

"Weird? Weird. I'm acting weird. Well, thank you, L, for that absolutely delightful summation of my personality."

"_This isn't _your_ personality. _It hasn't been for a long time."

" . . . what are you saying?"

_A sigh. _"I'm saying that you're acting like I'm your enemy. You're defensive. You're angry. You're hiding."

"I'm right here, aren't I? I'm not holed away in my bedroom, am I? I'm here, I'm functioning. That's been enough for you in the past; _why isn't it now_?"

"Because I can tell you're capable of more now. Because you're hiding something from me."

_Another long pause_. "I don't know what you want me to say to that."

"I guess you could tell me what's bothering you."

"No."

" . . . no? Just . . . flat out? Just like that? No explanation, no excuses."

"No."

_The longest pause yet. _"Okay. Fine."

"Oh, God, L, don't act like that."

"Hey, if you get to revert back to being fractious and deliberately antagonistic, then I get to revert back to being sullen and sarcastic. It's only fair."

"None of this is _fair_, L. When has any of this ever been about fairness?"

"Any of _this_? You mean, our relationship?"

_"What relationship?_ All we have is bitterness and hostility between us."

". . ."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. That was cruel. I don't know why I said it."

"You said it to hurt me. That much was obvious."

"I'm _sorry_. I didn't mean it."

"It's fine. It doesn't matter."

"L, I— L! Don't just leave—"

_The sound of a door closing. _

" . . . God damn it."

* * *

It doesn't take a genius to be able to tell that Light is wide awake even though his eyes are closed; his breathing and barely-noticeable tremors in his hands are a dead-giveaway, not to mention the fact that when Matt walked into the bedroom, he'd seen Light flinch, just a little.

Matt _is _a genius, though, so on top of all that, he can also sense that Light isn't pretending to be asleep just because he doesn't want to talk to him (or L, since that's probably who Light thinks he is). He's feigning unconsciousness because he's _afraid. _

_ Damn, _Matt thinks. _Damn, L was right_.

And of course L was right. Why wouldn't he be right? But when L called them about a fortnight after B's suicide and asked them to pay a visit because Light was, quote, "acting weird," Matt had thought that maybe he'd been exaggerating. He'd sort of _hoped_ that L was imagining it all, because Lord knew that after all the shit they'd been through in the past couple of weeks (or months, or years), all of them deserved a little peace.

_Trust Light to fuck that up_, Matt thinks grimly as he moves quietly into the room, turning on a dim bedside lamp as he sits on the edge of the bed. It's not really fair of him to think that, but . . . Light _is _kind of the reason that Mello almost got shot a few weeks ago, and Matt still hasn't quite recovered from that.

It isn't until Matt is about a quarter of the way through his first cigarette that Light "wakes up." Quite convincingly, too, until Matt rolls his eyes (barely visible in the faded light of the room) and snaps, "Cut the crap, Light, I know you're awake."

Light's eyes open fully then, and he regards Matt with a blank look that has hostility and suspicion spinning along the outer edges and which is so unlike the Light that he has come to know that it kind of throws him for a minute.

"What's up?" Light finally asks, shifting so that he's half-sitting, propped up on the pillows as he twists the sheets between his fingers. After a brief moment, though, he seems to realize what he's doing and pats the sheets down and folds his hands together.

Matt takes another deep breath and exhales, slowly. Light and he both watch as the smoke curls in the yellow light, shifting in arcane, nebulous patterns. Matt swears that he sees something like a flash of red somewhere in the smoke, but when he looks closer, it's gone.

"Can't sleep," Matt finally says, lowering the cigarette and looking at Light.

"Bullshit," Light says calmly, not bothering to return Matt's eye contact. He's staring straight ahead, and Matt's first reaction is to think how stiff and anxious Light seems. But his second reaction is more of a realization: Light is stiff, yes, he's anxious about something, definitely, but more importantly, _he's trying to hide it._

"Could say the same to you," Matt says casually, swinging his legs up and sitting cross-legged on the mattress. He grabs a makeshift ashtray from the nightstand (a teacup left behind there) and positions it next to his right side.

Light sits up further, although Matt can't tell if his increased defensiveness is because of Matt's comment or his proximity. Maybe both. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully.

"L says you're acting weird." Matt decides to just come out and say it. God, Mello's total lack of tack and subtlety must be rubbing off on him.

Light blinks once, and then his brow begins to furrow and he starts to bite his lower lip—and then, just as suddenly, his usual tells are gone, and Matt's looking at a total poker face.

And suddenly, it hits Matt like a slap in the face and he realizes but can't believe he didn't get it sooner: Light isn't "acting weird." He's just straight up _acting_.

He's _lying_.

L's told them, of course, about Light-before-Kira and Light-as-Kira. Matt's seen a couple of videos, and he and Mello had been both impressed and disgusted by the consummate liar Light Yagami had been before it had been literally beaten out of him. L's theory had been that after they'd rescued him from the asylum, Light had been so focused on staying in control most of the time that he simply hadn't had the energy to actually lie about himself or how he was feeling. He was constantly trying not to break down, so everything else was always just below the surface.

But now . . . his face is expressionless, except for the smallest quirk at the side of his lips that tells Matt that he's listening and entertaining what Matt has to say. It is in the almost-smile, the little imperious tilt of his head, the interest that his eyes so plainly convey when before (usually), his eyes were dark and inscrutable. They seem so open now, earnest and amicable. And Matt finds himself wanting to trust _this_ Light Yagami and at the same time, realizing that the other one, the one from before, the one he'd known, was actually the trustworthy one. Ironic, considering that the Light from before was unstable, unbalanced, violent and angry and at times just bat-shit crazy.

But this one's a _liar._

And Matt's so consumed with this sudden cognizance that at first he doesn't realize that Light's speaking.

" . . . weird's supposed to mean?" he's asking.

Matt replays the question in his head to get a good feel for it and then shrugs. "I dunno," he says (but he _does _know, now, what L was talking about, he just doesn't know _why_).

Light stares at him for a moment longer, then sighs and turns his gaze to the ceiling for a moment. "How am I supposed to fix something if no one can explain to me what the problem is?" he asks, seemingly of the world at large.

And although the way Light phrases the question makes it sound sort of pensive, almost philosophical, Matt answers anyway.

"Look, Light," Matt starts, then takes another drag on the cigarette to slow himself down. He doesn't know why, but this new version of Light is setting his teeth on edge. Matt has a sort of sixth sense about people, and he doesn't have much of a tolerance for liars because of it—it's one of the reasons why he prefers Mello's company to Near's, and why he and L haven't always gotten along.

"Come on, man," Matt tries again. "You're different, you've gotta admit that much."

Light's eyes darken a bit as he glares at the ceiling and Matt can feel his own pulse slowing—finally, he's getting back to honest reactions—but then Light's eyes shutter and the emotion slips off his face till there's only a trace of his anger left. "Did everyone expect me to stay the same after my whirlwind adventure with B?" he asks, his voice dry and restrained.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Light," Matt snaps, suddenly irritated. Light jumps a little at his tone, surprised, and looks over at him. "Look, you've . . . you're not talking much, you're isolating yourself, you moved out of your and L's bedroom because you 'needed space,' you're just . . . it's . . . it's weird," Matt finishes lamely, waving he hand that isn't holding a cigarette around for emphasis.

There's a pause, and then slowly, almost . . . no, _definitely _deliberately, a little bit of light and humanity starts to filter back into Light's eyes and his fingers begin picking at the duvet cover again.

This time, though, _this time, _Matt can tell that it's _fucking calculated. _Light is _imitating _previous behaviors—behaviors he knew that they'd all come to expect of him, and he's using his old nervous tics to create a shield for himself.

"Who the hell are you?" Matt finds himself blurting out before he can help himself. A second later, though, he's glad he did it, because as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Light freezes and stares at him for a moment, and then finally drops all pretenses. He sits straight up in bed and turns to face Matt.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Light throws back.

"You're . . . damn it, Light, I don't know. I don't know you well enough to know," Matt says. "This isn't like you. You're just not acting like _you._"

"Let's say you're right," Light proposes, speaking slowly, reasonably. "Let's say I've changed and I'm acting different—distant. Why is everyone so eager to have the old version of myself back?" Light demands instead of answering Matt's unspoken question. "I wasn't . . . it's not like I was exactly easy to deal with."

Matt finds himself unable to contain the sneer that curls his lips as he says back, "It's easier to deal with someone who's unpredictable and authentic than to deal with someone who's stable and who's also a liar."

Light straightens when he hears that, sits straight up and meets Matt's eyes with a burning intensity that balances somewhere between anger and fear.

There's a beat of silence and then Matt drops his anger (he's never been able to stay angry, damn it all) and cracks a smile. "Come on, Light," he says softly, almost goading him. "You're living with L now, not your stupid family. And me and Mels are your friends now, not those idiots from your high school. If you're going to lie to us, you're gonna have to do better than that."

For a moment, Light looks as though he's retreating into himself, shutting off his emotions and tightening his jaw as he works out a response. Then he sits up straight again and his face becomes more expressive until a smile appears that is a little twisted and utterly humorless. "Again, I have to ask: why did everybody think I'd be able to stay the same after all this? Did all of you expect that nothing would change once L had manage to wrest me away from B's nefarious clutches?"

"You mean after B dragged your ass over three continents, abusing and raping you along the way? As he went on a delightful little murder spree designed to implicate Crowley, who he ultimately planned to take you to and leave you with so that Crowley could murder you? All for his ultimate revenge against the world's greatest detective, who you are _in love with_?" Matt demands. "You mean, what did we think you'd be like after all those—we thought—horrible experiences? Not like this, Light, that's for damn sure! We thought you _wanted _to come back. We thought that's why you called when you were with Near."

Light, who had flinched at the mention of abuse and rape, and whose eyes had only grown darker and darker as Matt continued, draws a shaky breath now and looks away. His hands curl slowly into fists as he glares off into the corner of the room.

Matt suddenly feels a pang of guilt. Just because Light seems to have it all together right now doesn't necessarily mean that he actually _does_.

_He's _acting_, remember? _Matt reminded himself. That was the whole point. Light's _acting. _

So Matt reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch when he makes contact. "Look," he says, his tone gentle now. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that, but-"

Light brushes his hand off. "I did want to come back," he says, his voice hollow. Matt feels a tight knot of tension in his chest—one that he hadn't actually realized was there—begin to loosen at the ragged honesty in Light's voice now. "I _do_ want to be here, Matt. I'd rather be here than anywhere else, at any rate."

"And you do want to be with L," Matt prompts.

There's a pause, and then Light nods. "Yes," he says, and it's not a lie. "I want to be here with L."

"So what's up?" Matt asks, his voice so much softer now, so much gentler now that Light isn't trying to lie to him. He puts his hand back on Light's shoulder, and this time Light allows it stay.

"What are you asking about, specifically?" Light asks. His face is still turned away and Matt frowns and sits back, giving Light his space.

"Well," Matt says slowly, grinding out his cigarette and pulling out another one. "Let's start with this room. You moved your stuff in here, starting sleeping here instead of in L's bed-"

"Wait, I've got a better idea," Light interrupts, and his voice is suddenly angry and so, so bitter. "Let's start with _you. _Why the hell do you care about any of this? What has L promised you to get you to come in here and shrink his pet project?"

"What?" Matt demands, reeling a little from the sudden mood swing. "I-" he cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. He takes another one and swallows the words that had surged to the surface after Light's outburst. Slowly, with calm, smooth movements, he packs the cigarettes again and removes one from the pack. His movements are careful and precise with the cigarette and his lighter and finally, by the time he exhales his first breath of warm nicotine, he's calm. He closes his eyes for a minute and sorts out what he wants to say.

"Okay, Light," is what he says. "Okay, there are a couple of things wrong with what you just said." He doesn't open his eyes; he doesn't have to know that Light is looking at him with a mixture of suspicion, irritability, and wariness. He pauses, cocks his head a bit to one side, giving Light a chance to say something, but when the room is silent, Matt takes a deep drag on the cigarette. On the exhale, he opens his eyes, but doesn't look at Light. The way Light is acting now—defensive, uptight, almost . . . afraid—he knows that eye contact would just be unnecessary pressure and possibly even provocation.

"First," Matt starts. "First, of _course_ I care about this, Light." He glances over at Light, briefly meeting his eyes before looking away again. "You're my friend, I care about you, I worry about you."

Light's lips twist a little at that, turning down into something of a grimace and Matt wonders if it's because he doesn't like him or if he feels like he doesn't deserve it.

"And," Matt continues, "I care about L, and this is wrecking him right now, Light. It's been a few weeks since B's death and you're . . . honestly, I think you're starting to scare him." He says it as gently as he can, no emphasis anywhere, just stating a fact, and it has the desired effect. The wariness and mistrust slip away and Light looks down and begins to pick at his nails.

"Secondly," Matt says, "L has never—and will never—have to 'promise' me anything to talk to you. I _like _talking to you, Light, except for when you're being an immature prick, like right now." This comment gets a wry smile from Light in recognition.

"Finally, the idea that you're . . . that you're nothing but some sort of project to L—something he feels obligated to deal with and to fix up—is absolutely fucking ridiculous." Matt ends with a note of steel in his voice, willing Light to get it, to see that he's being paranoid, and hostile, and bitter for no reason at all.

But—"Is it?" Light asks quietly.

Matt is about to respond sarcastically before he realizes that Light is actually asking—genuinely, beseechingly, asking him to verify it for him. _I'm more than that to him, aren't I? _Light is asking. _Tell me L doesn't just keep me around out of a sense of duty and guilt_, he's saying.

"Light . . . he loves you," Matt says, finally turning his head to make eye contact. "He'd do anything for you—he's done pretty much everything he can for you. And he'd do it again."

Light is quiet for a moment. "He's said that too," he says softly, almost inaudibly.

"He means it," Matt reassures him. "Why else would he say it?"

Light shrugs. "I don't know," he admits quietly. "And it scares me." He suddenly inhales sharply before Matt can respond, and turns his body away from Matt, an obvious _leave me alone_ sign.

"Light?" Matt asks cautiously.

"It's fine," Light manages to say. It seems like a struggle for him to get the words out. "I get it, Matt. I know what you—and L—are trying to say."

"Do you _believe _it?" Matt presses, and Light laughs, a little helplessly and glances up at him.

"I'm _trying_," he says.

"Man, he . . . L chased you halfway around the world," Matt reminds him. "He risked everything—and gave up a lot. If you were just trouble to him, don't you think he have gotten rid of you by now?"

Light laughs, a little more honestly this time. "I keep waiting for the axe to fall," he admits. "I keep waiting for him to pull the carpet out from under my feet, to slap the handcuffs on with a, 'Just kidding!' and ship me off to the execution chamber."

"Light . . . Light, he's never going to do that," Matt tells him. "Like . . . ever."

"Not even in a million years?" Light suggests, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Matt grins. "Not even in two million years," he agrees. He settles back against the headboard and takes another long drag. After a moment's consideration, he decides to give Light a break, so he asks, "The smoke doesn't bother you, does it?"

Light immediately shakes his head. "No," he says. "I don't smoke because it would piss L off and God knows I already have enough bad habits and addictions. But I don't mind it."

Matt nods. "Good," he says. "Don't tell L I was smoking inside, though, he'll kill me."

Light smiles. "I thought you were going to quit," he says, finally amiable and almost . . . relaxed.

Matt shrugs. "Yeah, well . . ." he says, letting the end of the sentence dangle and hang in the air between them.

"Sorry, I guess that's just what Mello said earlier," Light clarifies.

Matt nods again. "Yeah, he wants me to, and I can see why. I mean, if we haven't died yet, then there's actually a pretty good chance I _could _get lung cancer and die of that, instead of getting shot or run over or something equally horrible and sudden.

It suddenly strikes Matt—they are having a normal conversation. He and Light Yagami—mental patient, and mass murderer extraordinaire—are sitting on Light's bed at eleven at night, chatting about almost-normal stuff.

"Yeah, I can't exactly imagine you dying of lung cancer," Light says speculatively. "I don't think lying for months in a hospital, hooked up to half a dozen different machines would suit you very well."

Matt smiles a little and nods. "Not to mention that it would kill Mello." He stubs the cigarette out in the teacup and pauses his hands as they reach for the pack and his lighter again. Then he shrugs and lights up again. "What the hell," he mutters. "You only live once. I'll figure it out later."

Light makes a small noise of agreement and leans back against the headboard. It's the most relaxed Matt's seen him in days.

So of course Matt has to go and screw that all up.

"You seem better," he says, seemingly out of nowhere.

Light looks at him sharply. "What do you mean?" he asks, and Matt could kick himself for putting Light on the defensive again.

"I just mean . . . damn, Light, it's usually hard to have conversations like this with you."

"You mean conversations without me having an episode or a flashback," Light says, his voice stony. "A conversation where I can follow everything that's going on and I can recognize and respond to social cues appropriately?"

"Yeah," Matt says with a grin, trying to get the easy feeling of conversation and trust back. "Like that. What happened?"

Light shrugs. "Not sure," he says, and the grin slips off Matt's face because there Light goes again, _lying_.

There is a long pause, and then Light smiles a bit, and Matt doubts that he knows that Matt can tell it's insincere. Light looks up at him. "Is that it?" he asks. "I mean . . . you can go now and tell L you talked to me and got me to promise to behave better."

Matt grimaces. "That's not the fucking point of this whole conversation, Light, and you know it."

"So you're saying that L didn't ask you to come talk to me," Light says with no small amount of derision in his tone.

"No, that's not it," Matt says. "L asked me to come talk to you, yeah, but not so that you'd _behave better_. He knows something's wrong and he knows that you don't want to talk to him about it. He was hoping you'd talk to me."

Slowly, Light crosses his arms. His lips press tightly together and he stares straight ahead. His eyes flicker for a few seconds and for a moment, Matt could swear he's actually _listening_ to something. Grimly, Matt adds _hallucinations_ to his growing list of shit that could be wrong with Light.

Finally, Light speaks again. "I know it's weird. I know I'm acting weird," he admits. "I _know _it, Matt. And . . . and a part of me . . . _hates_ it," he chokes out, his voice suddenly more emotional than it has been all night. He pauses and swallows. "But I do need the space. I've been on my own or with B for a long time. And B didn't exactly hover."

Matt hesitates, then asks the question they've all been wondering for awhile. "What _did_ you guys do most of the time?" he asks. "I mean, do you have like a rough timeline? You were missing for so long, and we only ever knew where you were every so often."

Light smiles a little. The topic swap seems to relax him, and Matt wonders what could be worse than talking about what he'd been doing with B for the past month or two. "It's not complicated," he says. "And I don't know the dates. I was kind of . . . out of it, most of the time. No medication, you know?"

Matt nods.

"We left here, and then it was flying or driving or taking trains through Europe. We went through Russia to get to China, I remember it was easier because we didn't want to have to go through the Middle East and deal with all the borders.

"We stayed in China for a bit," Light continues, eyes getting a little distant as he thinks. "I'm not sure why—I was especially out of it until Chicago. I had no clue what was going on. I was just dragging my feet after B, trying to keep up.

"We ended up in Japan, of course." Light pauses and his eyes flicker over to Matt. "You guys knew that, at least."

Matt nods. "Yeah, that was the first time we had a concrete idea of where you were."

Light nods too. "You know why I left," he says, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "I'm sure you all do. The Death Note, and Crowley."

"Yeah," Matt agrees.

"Well, we went after the Death Note first—at least, that's what I thought was going on." Light's fingers curl into fists as his face morphs into an expression of utter loathing. "I should have _known_ B was lying to me!" he snaps. He pauses to take a deep, shuddering breath. "I did know," he says, quieter now. "I'm not stupid, Matt. I know B is—was a liar. I was just . . . it was a _chance_, you know?" he says, looking at Matt again, and his blank expression is back.

"A chance to get your life back?" Matt guesses.

Light laughs, hollowly. "A chance to get _control_ back," he corrects. "I knew my life was over. There was no way to reclaim any of what I'd used to be. But I wanted a choice." Matt watches as he clenches his teeth suddenly and then forces himself relax. "I wanted to decide where to go. I didn't want L to dictate my every move, every aspect of my schedule."

"Damn, Light," Matt says, "when you decide to rebel, you go all out, don't you?"

That surprises a laugh out of Light, who shakes his head and tries to fight the smile that came along with Matt's comment.

"You're going to tell L everything I say here, aren't you?" Light asks, and Matt wonders where the question comes from. "I mean, you're going to report to him after this, right?"

Matt shrugs. "Kinda," he admits. "I mean, he _did _ask me to come here. It'd be weird if I didn't tell him what we talked about. But I don't have to tell him everything."

Light swallows and opens his mouth for a moment, then snaps it shut. He tries again, then smiles ruefully and shakes his head. He tries something else: "Don't tell L—but I'm glad I left," he whispers, his voice barely audible.

Matt looks back at him, and he doesn't even have to ask before Light is explaining.

"After Japan—well, after that hotel burned down, the police were looking for B," Light says, and Matt nods. He knew that. "So B sent me ahead while he stayed in Japan."

The sentence, the way Light says it, seems to hold some significance. It's heavy with meaning and Matt feels like he should be getting it but he just _isn't_.

"I was _alone_," Light clarifies. "And I've _never _been alone before, Matt. Not like that. Even in prison, in solitary—I was alone in the sense there was no one with me. But there was never an absence of human contact. I was left alone, but I wasn't _deserted._"

It suddenly clicks and Matt nods.

"I've never had that before. There's always been someone there who was entrusted with my care. With my parents, then with L on the case, then in prison during the trial, then with Crowley, then L again, and then with B. Someone _else_ has always been responsible for me."

"But after Japan . . ."  
"Yes," Light says. "B bought me a ticket and a fake ID and sent me to Chicago, completely alone. The plane wasn't too bad—there were people there, people in charge. But when we landed . . ."

There's a pause until Matt fills it: "Where _did _you go?" he asks.

Light laughs, and again there's nothing humorous in it. "I don't know," he says, and his voice is hollow and empty-sounding. "I just walked. For a long time. I was just walking, and . . ." his eyes get a faraway look as he remembers. "Eventually I stopped. It was cold. Below zero with a windchill in the middle of a snowstorm cold."

Matt nods. Fucking Chicago. He remembers.

"I just stopped after a while," Light continues. "And I guess I just . . . gave up." He meets Matt's eyes again. "I don't remember really well. I was . . . confused. There was no medication, I was sick with worry and fear, I was starving, it was cold, and like I said, I was _alone. _I was just . . . I just laid down and waited to die."

Matt waits for a moment, holding his breath, then asks, quietly, "So what happened?"

Slowly, Light shakes his head. "I snapped out of it. I don't know how long it was, Matt. It could have been hours, or days. But something happened—I think there was a fight, or something, near me, and it scared me. That was the first concrete emotion I'd really felt the whole time I'd been in Chicago. I mean—I'd been scared before, and angry, and miserable, but . . . those were all _internal_. This was out of my mind, out in the open, and I was scared that I was going to _die_. And I realized that I didn't want to."

"Is that when you went into that gas station?" Matt asks.

Light looks at him curiously, then seems to realize that Matt would have pulled up a video of the street and the station he'd been in. "Yeah," he says. "And after that . . . I found a cheap motel, and just . . . slept and ate for a couple of days. Rode out the worst of the withdrawals."

Matt gives him a sympathetic smile and takes another long drag on the cigarette. "I know what you mean," he says.

Light glances at the cigarette too. "You've tried quitting those before?" he guesses.

Matt looks down at it again. "Oh. These? No."

Light looks a little puzzled. "Then what . . ."

Matt shrugs. "Drugs," he says shortly, then laughs a little at Light's surprised expression. "Don't act so surprised, Light."

"I'm not acting," Light says honestly.

"Well that's a first for tonight," Matt mutters, and Light's expression turns stony again. He launches into a quick explanation, wanting to switch topics before Light shuts down again, but preferring not to dwell on this particular topic. "After Mello left Wammy's—after he left me. It was a bad time."

"So . . . drugs," Light finishes.

Matt grimaces. "It wasn't exactly my finest hour."

"What made you quit?" Light asks curiously.

Matt grins. "The raging hurricane of absolute fury that Mello turned into when he caught me using," he says ruefully. "After he blew himself halfway to hell and called me to come pick him up and fix him up, we just wound up living together. Mello told me later that he'd killed part of himself leaving me in the first place, and he couldn't bring himself to do it again, even though it meant that I was in danger. At that point, I wanted to quit—I mean, I had Mello back, I was finally sort of happy again, so it didn't seem necessary . . . but . . . I have one hell of an addictive personality. Runs in the family."

"You mean your family with Mello, or . . ."

"My genetic family."

"How do you know? Aren't you . . . an orphan?" The word sounds weird, almost archaic as Light says it, and he grimaces a little.

Matt nods slowly. "Yeah," he says. "But I know a little about my family, even though they all died off a long time ago. I checked out my records when I was younger, still at Wammy's. They weren't exactly nice people."

"Sounds like that would be great to hear about."

Matt shrugs. "Meh," he says. "I've got their genes, but I'm lucky enough to have been raised by people who weren't drug addicts who got mixed up in a bad deal and got shot or killed themselves."

Light thinks about that for a minute. This conversation is _weird_, he thinks, but at least they've stopped talking about him.

As if on cue, Matt glances back at him and says, "So I guess you don't feel like telling me why you're acting . . . the way you're acting."

Light goes still for a minute. "No," he agrees. "I guess not."

Matt waits for another moment, possibly waiting for Light to change his mind, then nods. He stands up, taking a last breath of bitter smoke and then putting the cigarette out. "All right," he says. "I'll tell L I talked to you." He pauses and then goes right ahead and says what he's thinking. "Just . . . give L a break, okay, Light? He's really torn up about this."

Light looks down; looks ashamed. Which, in Matt's opinion, he should be. "I'll try," he says quietly, and Matt nods again and leaves.

* * *

Living with Kira in his brain is like seeing things through a grimy film—everything seems darker, everyone is suspicious . . .

But at the same time, that comparison doesn't quite work. The film he's looking through only twists the way he thinks about everything—it doesn't make anything any less clear. And in fact, he's thinking better, faster than he has in years. His reaction time's better, he doesn't have to think about things like saying "thank you" or making eye contact or smiling in a reassuring way. It just comes to him. It's automatic. Like it used to be.

_Like it should be_, he thinks.

"He seems nice," Ryuk says, grinning, interrupting his thought process. "You guys are good friends?"

"Shut up, Ryuk," Light mutters, turning away from the camera in the room so it won't catch his words. He knows that L has the cameras all over the house (although L just set them running again for the first time after Light's return); he also knows, though, that none of the cameras have microphones, so this is safe enough.

"No, no, I like him," Ryuk presses.

"I thought I told you to _shut up_," Light hisses.

"I heard you," Ryuk says blithely. "But you aren't the boss of me."

"I seem to remember a time when you would actually do what I said half the time."

"Well, yeah, but . . . you had apples to bribe me with then, remember?"

"I've _told _you, I have considerably less freedom now than I did-"

"Which is something, since your family didn't exactly give you much leeway from what I could tell."

Light pauses at that and snaps his mouth shut. His _family_. He hasn't thought about them for . . . years, almost, except for a passing thought or a stray memory. "Well, things are different now."

Ryuk glances around the room, gaze hovering on the camera in the corner and the scars on Light's arms. "Yeah, I kinda gathered that."

"You suck, did you know that?" Light asks suddenly, not wanting at all to explain to Ryuk exactly why he was so different and why he was so confined here (which rankled his new personality so much that he could hardly breathe at times). "If there was one thing that I didn't need right now, right this moment, it's the Death Note and your near-constant companionship. It's driving me crazy."

"From the way that L guy looks at you, you were already halfway there before I showed up."

"_Exactly_," Light hisses. "And not even halfway; I was- you know what? I'm not talking about this with you. There are dozens, if not hundreds of more opportune times you could have shown up with your fucking Deus ex machina, but you didn't, and now this is just screwing everything up. I can't even _think_ half the time, what with Kira screaming in my ear-"

"Hey, that's not exactly my problem, is it?"

"Well, Ryuk, let's look at the facts, shall we?" Light proposes. "In fact, we really only need to look at _one _fact: that I currently have _your_ Death Note. Not one you stole or won from another shinigami. Yours. Which means that you can't kill me off when I'm starting to bore you-"

"Which is all the time nowadays," Ryuk mutters.

"So now we're pretty much stuck with each other, unless I burn this, which I cannot bring myself to do because, as I said before, I've got this whole other personality nagging at me most of the time, and that personality really, really wants to keep the Death Note around. And now it's making it impossible to have anything resembling a normal conversation, making me act like an immature brat mot of the time. And I'm not exactly enamored of the idea."

Ryuk thinks about that. "So what do you want me to do about it?" he asks.

"I'd like you to turn back time and then leave me the hell alone," Light mutters.

"Who, exactly, are you talking to, Light?" L asks from the doorway, and Light freezes. Ryuk starts cackling madly, which is helping the situation exactly 0 percent.

What Light _wants _to say is, "That depends. How much did you hear?" But instead he says, "My alter ego, of course."

L walks into the room carefully, looking around as though he's missed something. Which he has.

"Does your alter ego have a name?" he asks, sounding for all the world like he's just curious when Light can hear perfectly well the undercurrents of dread running through his question.

Light thinks about that for a moment. "No?" he finally says.

"No," L repeats. He sits on the edge of the bed. "Should I be worried that you've started talking to thin air, Light?" he asks. "You usually don't do that unless you're going through withdrawals."

"Oh, shut up," Light mutters, speaking as much to Ryuk, who hasn't stopped laughing, as he is to L and his questions and assumptions.

L pauses for a beat, and then finally says, "Okay. I'm just going to come right out and say it because I am sick and tired of dancing around the issue. When, exactly, did you regain your memories of Kira? And more importantly, how?"

* * *

**A/N: ***sigh* Sorry for the long wait, everybody! I've just been wrestling with this chapter for awhile. And . . . I'm just plain old tired of editing this chapter now. So, here you go, I guess. It isn't exactly what I wanted it to look like, but at least we have some stuff happening. Next chapter should be a bit more fun—it should have some sexiness, at any rate, and that's always a good thing, yes?

Okay, before anyone asks why no one but Light can see Ryuk: remember, L burned the Death Note that belonged to Light, and before that belonged to Ryuk. The Death Note that L used to kill Crowley was Misa's old Note, or Gelus' old Note. The note that belonged to Rem was with B.

This is how I worked it out in my head:

Death Note 1: Sidoh→Ryuk→Light→L, who burns it after breaking Light out the asylum

Death Note 2: Gelus→Rem→Misa→L, who takes it out of the safety deposit box Misa placed it in in Chicago while Light is still in the asylum (this is the one L uses to kill Crowley)

Death Note 3: Rem→B (after B pays a mugger to kill Misa and the mugger is killed by Rem)

Any questions? No? Excellent. Please review!


	22. Battle

**Part 22 - Battle**

**Published 11.21.11**

* * *

_Earlier_:

Matt has been there for a while before Light finally figures he's not getting out of this one. So he pretends to wake up, slowly, before, "Cut the crap, Light, I know you're awake," Matt snaps.

**Well, this could be fun. **

_You stay the fuck out of this. I'll handle Matt. I don't want you talking to him. _

**I'll 'stay the fuck out of it' as long as you don't fuck anything up. Deal?**

_Deal._

"What's up?" Light asks. He opens his eyes and sits up, willing Kira to the darkest corner of his mind so he can _think_, damn it, so he can _remember _how he and Matt used to talk.

"Can't sleep," Matt says.

"Bullshit," Light says, not thinking before he answers. He almost flinches after, thinking, _Way too strong, I'm coming on way too strong._

"Could say the same to you." Matt speaks casually, but Light can hear the censure buried in the words.

_Need to be more careful . . ._ "What do you mean?" _There, that doesn't give anything away. _

"L says you're acting weird."

_Well, that's because I am fucking acting weird, genius. _

**Need some help?**

_I thought I told you to stay the hell out of this._

**I will, so long as you manage not to give everything away with your expressions and tells. Like you're doing. Right now.**

_Oh. _

Light smooths out his expression and then shrugs. "What's weird supposed to mean?" he asks.

"I dunno," Matt says.

**He's just brilliant, isn't he? So articulate-**

_Shut up, Kira._

"How am I supposed to fix something if no one can explain to me what the problem is?" Light asks, trying to draw attention away from his own behavior.

Matt's smoking, which Light doesn't mind, but which draws all sorts of derisive comments from Kira. "Look, Light," Matt says, then pauses and sighs. "Come on, man," he tries again. "You're different, you've gotta admit that much."

_Do you _see _why I don't want you around? Do you _see? _They can tell. _

**It isn't my fault if you're acting skills have sunk so low that they're practically non-existent. If you'd just let me be in charge-**

_Like hell. _

"Did everyone expect me to stay the same after my whirlwind adventure with B?" Light finally asks. He knows his acting sucks right now—he knows that he's out of touch. His only chance here is to distract.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Light," Matt snaps. "Look, you've . . . you're not talking much, you're isolating yourself, you moved out of your and L's bedroom because you 'needed space,' you're just . . . it's . . . it's weird."

**It's not like my only skill is destruction, Light. I can **_**act**_** too, in a way you apparently **_**cannot**_**. Let me in. Let me be in charge. **

_. . . Fine. Once. _

Before Kira's even got a good reign on his emotions though, Matt blurts out, "Who the hell are you?"

Light swallows and sits up straighter in bed.

_ You're doing a fucking wonderful job, obviously. _

**Shut up and let me lead.**

"What the hell are you talking about?" he throws back.

"You're . . . damn it, Light, I don't know. I don't know you well enough to know." **Exactly. And you never will. **"This isn't like you. You're just not acting like _you._"

_Like I've been saying-_

**Shut. Up. **

"Let's say you're right," he proposes, speaking slowly, reasonably. "Let's say I've changed and I'm acting different—distant. Why is everyone so eager to have the old version of myself back? I wasn't . . . it's not like I was exactly easy to deal with."

**There, there's a bit of insecurity to distract him with-**

_Matt's too smart for that to work-_

**He doesn't exactly act like a genius. **

But, "It's easier to deal with someone who's unpredictable and authentic than to deal with someone who's stable and who's also a liar," Matt says, and Kira and Light both reel a little from the comment.

_I told you-_

**If you would **_**just let me **_**in I'd be able to read them better-**

_Stop talking, please—just shut up, I can't focus-_

"Come on, Light," Matt says softly, smiling at him. It isn't exactly a kind smile. "You're living with L now, not your stupid family. And me and Mels are your friends now, not those idiots from your high school. If you're going to lie to us, you're gonna have to do better than that."

_Exactly. _

**. . . Fine. He's all yours. **

_Distract._ "Again, I have to ask: why did everybody think I'd be able to stay the same after all this? Did all of you expect that nothing would change once L had manage to wrest me away from B's nefarious clutches?"

Matt's not taking the bait, though. "You mean after B dragged your ass over three continents, abusing and raping you along the way?" he asks

**Oh, yes, raped and cut up by a murderer, how was that for you, Light? **

_It wouldn't have gone any differently if you had been there-_

**You don't know that. You can't know that.**

" . . . As he went on a delightful little murder spree designed to implicate Crowley, who he ultimately planned to take you to and leave you with so that Crowley could murder you? All for his ultimate revenge against the world's greatest detective, who you are _in love with_? You mean, what did we think you'd be like after all those—we thought—horrible experiences? Not like this, Light, that's for damn sure! We thought you _wanted _to come back. We thought that's why you called when you were with Near."

**Poor Light . . . all those awful things you had to go through . . . all those degrading experiences, all that **_**crying**_** and **_**begging**_**-**

_If we're going to get out of this with as little suspicion as possible, I'm going to need for you to _shut to hell up-

"Look," Matt says, interrupting his thoughts. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that, but-"

"I did want to come back," Light says, speaking before Kira can say anything else. "I _do _want to be here, Matt. I'd rather be here than anywhere else, at any rate."

"And you do want to be with L," Matt prompts.

There's a pause, and then Light nods. "Yes," he says, and it's not a lie. "I want to be here with L."

**Aww-**

_Shut the hell up . . . _

"So what's up?" Matt asks.

"What are you asking about, specifically?" Light asks back.

**He's going to try to control you. He's already trying-**

"Well, let's start with this room. You moved your stuff in here, starting sleeping here instead of in L's bed-"

**And there it is—how, exactly, is this any of his business? Why does he **_**care**_**?**

Kira's just strong enough that for a moment, Light believes him; and he snaps. "Wait, I've got a better idea. Let's start with _you. _Why the hell do you care about any of this? What has L promised you to get you to come in here and shrink his pet project?" A moment after he speaks, Light knows he's being unreasonable, but it's hard to argue with Kira, who's almost purring with satisfaction at his outburst.

**I think you're finally getting it, Light. **

"Okay, Light," Matt says after a few false starts. "Okay, there are a couple of things wrong with what you just said."

**Here we go. **

_Here we go. _

"First," Matt says. "First, of _course _I care about this, Light. You're my friend, I care about you, I worry about you."

**That's sweet. Please don't tell me that you've been so pathetic that you would have actually responded to that sentiment at one time. **

"And," Matt continues, "I care about L, and this is wrecking him right now, Light. It's been a few weeks since B's death and you're . . . honestly, I think you're starting to scare him."

**Good, I-**

_No, he's right. I don't want to scare L. _

**. . . You're so **_**weak**_**. **

"Secondly, L has never—and will never—have to 'promise' me anything to talk to you. I _like _talking to you, Light, except for when you're being an immature prick, like right now."

Light _is_ being an immature prick, and he smiles in recognition.

"Finally, the idea that you're . . . that you're nothing but some sort of project to L—something he feels obligated to deal with and to fix up—is absolutely fucking ridiculous."

Light can feel, rather than hear, Kira's quiet, black laughter spreading through him. **He wants you to believe that L **_**cares**_** about you. He wants you to think that L ever **_**could**_** care about you or anyone else. **

"Is it?" Light asks quietly, speaking before Kira can forbid him to.

"Light . . . he loves you," Matt says. _**Lies. **_"He'd do anything for you—he's done pretty much everything he can for you. And he'd do it again."

**He lies well, for someone of inferior intellect. **

_Maybe he's not lying. _

Outwardly, "He's said that too," Light says softly, almost inaudibly.

"He means it," Matt reassures him. "Why else would he say it?"

**To delude you. To keep you quiet as he does what he wants to you, gets what he wants from you. To make a fool out of you. **

"I don't know," Light admits quietly. "And it scares me."

**Stop. Talking. **

_I need to hear-_

_**Now. **_

"Light?"

"It's fine," Light manages to say. **Careful. **"I get it, Matt. I know what you—and L—are trying to say."

"Do you _believe _it?"

"I'm _trying_," he says.

"Man, he . . . L chased you halfway around the world," Matt reminds him. "He risked everything—and gave up a lot. If you were just trouble to him, don't you think he have gotten rid of you by now?"

**You are his **_**toy**_**. Why would he get rid of you, he's obviously put so much work into molding you into his his little plaything? And can you imagine if he knew I were back? He tolerates you now because you're a sickening little animal he can play with—but if you were ever actually a threat . . . **

"I keep waiting for the axe to fall," Light says. "I keep waiting for him to pull the carpet out from under my feet, to slap the handcuffs on with a, 'Just kidding!' and ship me off to the execution chamber."

"Light . . . Light, he's never going to do that," Matt tells him. "Like . . . ever."

"Not even in a million years?" Light suggests, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

**Sickening.**

_Shut up. _

"Not even in two million years . . . The smoke doesn't bother you, does it?"

"No," Light says. "I don't smoke because it would piss L off and God knows I already have enough bad habits and addictions. But I don't mind it." This topic is safe, and Kira is silent. It is a relief, and it lasts for a while until Matt has to screw everything up again.

"You seem better," Matt says, seemingly out of nowhere.

**He can see straight through you. You make me **_**sick. **_**Can't you do anything without my assistance?**

"What do you mean?"

"I just mean . . . damn, Light, it's usually hard to have conversations like this with you."

**He means conversations where you are actually tolerable. **

"You mean conversations without me having an episode or a flashback. A conversation where I can follow everything that's going on and I can recognize and respond to social cues appropriately?"

"Yeah." Matt's grin makes Kira feel positively sick. "Like that. What happened?"

**Lie to him.**

_I _know _that. I'm not stupid._

**Debatable. **

"Not sure," Light says, shrugging. Matt still seems suspicious, and Light finally thinks to hell with convincing Matt, he just wants him out of here so he can get some peace. "Is that it?" Light continues. "I mean . . . you can go now and tell L you talked to me and got me to promise to behave better."

"That's not the fucking point of this whole conversation, Light, and you know it."

**Yes it is.**

_I can _handle _this._

"So you're saying that L didn't ask you to come talk to me."

"No, that's not it. L asked me to come talk to you, yeah, but not so that you'd _behave better_. He knows something's wrong and he knows that you don't want to talk to him about it. He was hoping you'd talk to me."

**Why does everyone want you to talk to them? Have you wondered that?**

_They worry-_

**They want to **_**control **_**you. They want you weak and dependent. **

_No-_

**Yes. **

_Just let me finish, here! Just let me get him out of here. _

**Fine. If you can. **

"I know it's weird. I know I'm acting weird," Light admits. **Careful, you have to move carefully here. **"I _know _it, Matt. And . . . and a part of me . . . _hates _it." **You're so **_**weak, **_**I can hardly stand it.** "But I do need the space. I've been on my own or with B for a long time. And B didn't exactly hover."

Matt looks like he'd like to ask more questions, but something in Light's expression or desperation must convince him because he asks about B instead, and Light relaxes as Kira releases the tight hold he's had on him.

And Kira stays quiet, all through Light's description of his and B's little adventure, only jumping in with a snide comment or two—but mostly content to stay in the background until:

Matt says, "So I guess you don't feel like telling me why you're acting . . . the way you're acting."

**You don't need me for this one. You know what to say. **

Light does know what to say and he says it, blankly, robotically. "No, I guess not."

Matt seems to hesitate, to wait for Light to relent, but with Kira's derision and tight control, Light is still. "All right," Matt finally says. "I'll tell L I talked to you. Just . . . give L a break, okay, Light? He's really torn up about this."

_I know. _

**Good.**

_Shut up. I don't want to hurt him. I love-_

**Don't finish that sentence. **

Light can barely get it out, but he manages to say, I'll try," and Matt nods again and leaves.

* * *

_Now: _

_ L pauses for a beat, and then finally says, "Okay. I'm just going to come right out and say it because I am sick and tired of dancing around the issue. When, exactly, did you regain your memories of Kira? And more importantly, how?"_

There is no sound in the room for a long moment. There is no sound and no air and there is only light, and Light, who is watching him so intently that L thinks he may be shaking.

It's funny, L, thinks (even though there's nothing funny about it, not ha-ha funny, hardly even strange-funny). They have been together for so long. Almost a decade. L has loved Light for more than half of his adult life, and Light really thinks that L isn't going to notice that he's acting like this? Light thinks that L isn't going to realize that somehow, impossibly, Kira's back?

Light is frozen still, his mouth slightly open and his expression torn somewhere between shock and revulsion. L wonders, almost idly, who the revulsion is directed towards—he's thinking that Light's most likely directing it towards himself, for not being able to hide well enough.

It should hurt him, L thinks as he continues to gaze at Light steadily. It should hurt him that Light is like this now, that Light's been trying to hide from him, that Light is maybe thinking about killing or harming him. But instead he just feels . . . tired.

Finally, Light seems to have made up his mind, and he closes his mouth and his lips quirk upwards at the corners as his expression turns smooth and deadly. And _there's _that fear and that hurt that L should've been feeling all this time, creeping up inside of him, crawling up his chest and gently wrapping around his throat until he feels like he's choking and he can hardly get any words out, even when Light murmurs,

"That is so like you, you know. Now that things aren't going your way—now that I've regained enough equanimity to act a bit like my old self—you're back to calling me Kira."

L swallows the worst of the sticky dread and heavy disappointment and manages to respond, "I'm not _calling _you anything, Light. I'm just stating a fact. And I'm just asking—when and how?"

Light's smirk curls into a sneer and he stands smoothly, placing his feet on the floor and getting to his feet and turning to face L again, all in one fluid motion.

_Why does Kira move so much more steadily than Light? _L speculates. _Is it the confidence? The cruelty, the bloodlust? What? _

Light moves over to L's side of the bed and sits down very close to him. L wonders whether Light means for that to be a comforting gesture, or a threatening one. Maybe he doesn't care. Whatever he intends, L simultaneously feels the urge to shrink back from him and to press closer.

"You think I'm Kira," Light says.

L finds himself distracted by Light's eyes, as they are glowing with a life he has not seen in years. "No," he says absently.

Light's eyes narrow. "'No,'" he repeats.

"No, I don't think you're Kira," L explains carefully. "Not as such. Not in so many words. You aren't Kira, you don't get to be Kira anymore, though that may not please you to hear. But I do know that you have your memories of _being _Kira back, and I'd like to know how that came about."

Light straightens (L had barely noticed him leaning in closer), and laughs softly. "Well, then, if I'm not Kira, and I'm not about to kill of a sizable portion of the human race again, what does it matter?"

L laughs too, but it's much less pleasant than Light's. "You're so different now," he murmurs, reaching up to touch Light's cheek.

Light lets his fingers remain there, only watching him with those vibrant eyes. And even though L is desperately worried about this new change in Light—even though he knows that Kira's return can be nothing but negative—a part of him thrills to Light's new ability to tolerate his touch without fear or disgust.

As if sensing this, Light turns his head a bit to the side and kisses L's fingers gently. L's fingers start to tremble, and Light's smile grows a little. **Time for a new strategy,** Kira thinks. **He's worried this change is a bad thing. Let's change his mind.**

L knows he's being manipulated, but when Light gently takes his hand in both of his and leans in to kiss him slowly, softly, he releases a shuddering breath and realizes that far from analyzing the situation like he should be, all he can think of is how good Light tastes.

Light leans in a little closer, one hand still holding L's, and the other extending to circle around the back of his neck; his fingers rest there, burning into L's skin, barely pressing and still the pressure of them is too much, the sense of ownership and possession is choking him again, cutting off his air and making him feel like he's drowning, and that he _likes_ drowning.

L's kissing back, unable to move much except to welcome Light's tongue into his mouth and to keep up as best he can, turning his head a little so their mouths fit together better and—_oh_, just like that—he doesn't even bother to try to stop himself as he hears himself moan softly into the kiss.

When Light's hears it, the pleased little sound he's managed to coax out of L with talented hands and a skilled tongue, he pulls back a little and waits until L opens his eyes. Keeping L's gaze locked with his, he kisses him again, once, twice, and presses back until L's half-laying under him, head only propped up by pillows. L's eyes begin to flutter shut, so he pauses again until L's eyes are on his again, and then he pulls back so there are a few inches between their lips.

"So what?" he asks.

"Hmm?" L asks back, a little dazed.

"Let's say you're right," Light proposes, bringing a hand up and brushing a piece of L's messy hair back. "Let's say I remember everything somehow. So what? Why would it matter?"

Light's close enough to L's eyes to see when the question registers in them. "You're different-" he begins.

Light kisses him again, pressing a little harder than before, his movements losing some of their indolence and L feels like Light's sparked a small fire inside of him and as the kiss drags on he's stoking it, adding fuel and stirring it up.

"So what?" Light repeats, suddenly pulling away. "I'm different—so what?"

L looks at him with half-lidded eyes for a moment, and then suddenly sits up, pushes him away, ignoring the indignant sound Light makes at the treatment. He breathes deeply for the first time in a few minutes, willing his logic back even as Light places one hand on his leg, not moving it, but curling his fingers a little into the inside of his knee.

After a moment, L manages to work up a good glare and turns it on Light.

Light looks amused and shifts his hand a little higher. L grabs it and squeezes it, hard. "That's cheating," he tells Light.

Light's amused expression isn't going anywhere. "You're welcome," he says, examining L's still-flushed face.

Suddenly, L shoves him away entirely, and (though he didn't intend it that way), Light slips off the bed, landing with a thump and a hiss.

"Sorry," L says. He's not sorry.

"You're not sorry," Light hisses softly.

"No, I'm not," L admits. "But you were playing dirty."

"Mmm," Light agrees, getting to his feet and walking over to his own side of the bed again.

L feels like he can fully breathe for the first time since he walked into that room. "Going to tell me what's going on?" he asks.

"I-" Light begins. _**Don't. You. Dare.** _"No," he amends quietly. He presses distracted fingers to his lips. _Any other brilliant ideas?_ He wonders.

"Who's talking to you, I wonder," L says in a low voice, and Light's head jerks up and L meets his cagey expression with quiet composure. When Light doesn't say anything, L continues, "Kira, I presume." He pauses, and then nods. "Yes, I've thought about it, and I'm sure it's him." His eyes meet Light's again. "What is he telling you to do?" **O****nly what you should have been doing all this time.** "To say? What is he telling you about me?" **Everything you've been afraid to think.** "Does he hate me, Light?" **Yes.** "Does he think he can manipulate me?" **Yes.** "Hurt me?" **Yes.** "Kill-" **Ye-**

"Shut up!" Light finally snaps. He presses both hands to his ears. He can't _think_ damn it, he can't think anything, he can't do anything, he's frozen unless he's thinking and doing what Kira wants, and he _cannot take the screaming_.

Distantly, he's aware of L's gentle fingers on his hands, pulling them away from his ears. Distantly, he feels the warm pressure of L's fingers on his shoulders and distantly he feels L's lips press against his temple.

"It's okay, Light," L whispers. **No, it's not, Light. **"It's okay, you can talk to me."

**No, you can't.**

"No, I can't."

"Shh, it's okay, I know you're afraid-"

**Oh, yes, Light, you're so frightened, aren't you? I frighten you, don't I?**_**  
**_"No-"

"And it's _okay, _Light, I just want you to talk to me-"

**Go on, Light, talk to him, tell him how I'm hurting you-**

"I've nothing to say to you-"

"Light, I know-"

**Yes, he knows you so well now, doesn't he-**

_"Shut up!" _Light's voice cracks as he shouts it; he pulls away from L and his kindness and wraps his arms around himself.

L pulls back a little, alarmed for a moment at Light's outburst; then he sees the fear and the struggle on Light's features and knows that Light isn't talking to him, not really.

**Tell him to leave you alone**.

_With you? No thank you, I'd rather have someone else here. _

_ **Now**_**.**

"Leave me alone." The words are out before Light can think about it and he curses himself for it.

L immediately shakes his head. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me the truth," he says.

"You're too goddamned perceptive for your own good, you know that?" Light demands, and L shrugs. **Stop talking now.** "I'm sorry, L, I'm just-" **Shut up! **"I can't _think_-" **Shut **_**up**_**!**"Everything is so loud-" **Light!**

"You mean Kira's so loud."

_**Not one word. **_

_Fine. _Light doesn't say anything. But he does nod. And then Kira's screaming is loud enough that he leans forward, gripping his head in both hands. Gradually, he is able to hear L's voice breaking through the tirade.

"-ight, Light, Light, Light, it's okay, Light," L is saying.

Shuddering, Light lifts his head and tears away from L's grasp. "It's not all right!" he gasps. "Just . . . leave me alone, L! Just leave!"

**Good, **Kira purrs.

_I _hate_ you. _

L wraps his arms around him again. "I'm not going anywhere, Light," he says gently.

Light shoves him away, harder than he had intended but still not hard enough.

"Light, come on, talk to me. Tell me what's going on inside your head," L cajoles.

**You'd better not. **

_I'm going insane._

**You're already there. Without me, you're already there. Remember?**

_Yes, goddamn it, I remember._

**Remember how you **_**wanted **_**me back? I wouldn't be here if you didn't want me here. You trekked around the world for me. **

_I trekked around the world for my memories._

**Memories of **_**me.**_

_I didn't know it would be like this. _

**I did try to warn you. **

_Yeah, well, I didn't believe-_

"Light."

Light shudders a little and drags himself back to the present. "What, L?" he snaps.

L smiles, sadly. "Light, come on. Stop pretending. I _know _what's going on."

"Then you hardly need me to tell you, do I?"

**Careful, now. Don't get too close to the truth. **

_And why not? When has L done anything besides accommodate me and try to heal me?  
_**How about when he refused your wish for death—something he'd **_**promised **_**you, and instead tossed you into a hell-hole not fit for an animal to live in? How about when he refused to let you help with Crowley's case? How about when he lied to you and manipulated you and used you? **

_Shut up! _

**You're only upset because I'm telling the truth.**

"Light, please," L says, speaking lowly. He reaches out and takes Light's hand. Raises it to his lips and kisses the knuckles gently. Light's breath catches.

**You're weak. You let him do this to you. You let him affect you like this.**

"Please, tell me what's wrong," L continues. "I already know, but I need to hear it from your lips. I can't help you until you're honest with me."

A look of revulsion crosses Light's face, and he jerks his hand away. "And what will you do, exactly?" he sneers. "How are you going to fix me? How can I trust you to fix me?"  
"I said I would, didn't I?" L reminds him. "And you said you'd let me, didn't you?"

"Well, that was before . . ."

"Before Kira."  
There is a long pause. Kira is screaming—not even distinct words, just screaming, over and over, distracting him, paining him until he grips his head again and doubles over, groaning.

"Light?"

"L . . . I c-can't," Light manages to get out. If it's even possible, Kira's screams grow louder, more vengeful. "I can't talk, I can't . . . can't even think . . . It just _hurts, _L, I didn't think it would _hurt_ this bad, and I want-"

_**No! **_**You will be **_**silent, **_**Light Yagami! **

Light's mouth shuts with a snap and he shudders again.

"He's controlling you," L surmises.

" . . . leave. Please," Light whispers. "_Please, _L," he says, a little louder, when L begins to refuse. "I can't . . . God, it hurts."

"Light, come on," L urges after a moment of silence. "You've dealt with pain before. You've been hurt before. Why is this so different?"

"Because it's _me_," Light moans, sitting up and dropping his hands into his lap. His eyes connect with L and positively spark with fiery electricity. "Because—because it's . . . it's me . . . myself, and-" He cuts himself off, groaning again with the effort of speaking.

**You worthless little child, you will be quiet! You will not reveal any more to him than you already have! You are ruining everything, you are destroying any hope of independence, you are wrecking my plans! **

_And what, exactly, are your plans?_

**In case you have forgotten, Light Yagami, and as much as you hate to admit it, **_**I am you**_**. My plans are your plans. I am tethered to you and **_**your **_**whims. **

_You think I _want _this? You think I _want _to hear you screaming every minute of every day?_

**I think you want your independence, your life, your **_**self **_**back. I think that, deep down, you know that I'm the only one who can give it to you. **

L has moved nearer to him and is rubbing soothing circles on his back as Light battles it out inside his mind. "I don't pretend to know what's going on inside your mind, Light," L says gently, speaking softly into his ear, his proximity so close that it's painful. "But I know you can win this fight."

Light breaks away from him with a snarl, Kira half in charge of his actions at this point. "You know _nothing_," he growls. "You know _nothing _about me, or about . . . about _him_."

"Only because you won't let me in," L presses.

"I don't _want _to let you in!" Light cries, and he's only half speaking to L. The rest is for Kira, who is still murmuring poison in his ear, making him feel like he's rotting from the inside out.

"I can _help _you," L insists.

"No. You. Can't."

It is silent for a beat. "I can," L finally says simply. He provides no supporting evidence, but Light wants to believe him, damn it.

Light is overwhelmed with rage—with _Kira—_for a long moment, then he slumps in defeat. "Okay," he whispers.

**No-**

"Yes, I remember," he manages, his voice strangled.

**Not another word!**

"I can't . . . he's so _loud_, L. I didn't expect it to be this _loud._ I didn't remember-"

L's expression, which had previously been one of solid unshakable determination, softens into something like pity and Light flinches. Kira's protests grow ever more intense until he feels like he's in the middle of a hurricane, winds howling, and being battered by the elements around him.

"_God,_" he mutters, feeling unable to say anything else.

"How?" L asks.

"It's . . ." Light gestures in the direction that Ryuk last stood, knowing full well that L will not understand. "Ryuk," he mutters, shivering as Kira's voice sounds again, promising dark retribution.

**I'm going to make you **_**hurt**_**, Light Yagami, **Kira promises.

_How? What could you possibly do to me inside my own mind._

In response, Kira provides images of sharp, silver blades and red, red blood spilling and swirling down the drain; he shows Light walls caving in, folding in on him as he screams; he shows him dark shadows in the corner of his vision, lurking, waiting to maul and kill; shows him inescapable memories of B raping him, hurting him, of himself giving into B, letting himself pretend that he's L. Light shudders until he thinks he'll fall apart; and L's arms come around him again, holding tight even when he tries to push him away. In response to his protests, L kisses him again, so sweetly that for a moment, everything is quiet.

Light sighs, and then everything starts up again.

"A Death Note," L summarizes, and Light nods. "Can't you just . . . give it up, Light?" L asks. "Destroy it?"

Light freezes, complete and utter panic overtaking his features as Kira starts in again, louder than ever. The barrage of threats and obscenities is so strong that Light barely has time to struggle out of L's arms and make it to the bathroom before his panic forces him to his knees and he is vomiting.

L comes in a moment after and rubs his back again. When Light finishes, there is absolutely nothing left in his stomach, and he stands weakly and washes out his mouth with toothpaste.

**Weak**, Kira taunts. **Weak, useless, childish, pathetic. I'm going to punish you for all of this, you're going to be sorry for all of this. **

In response, Light grabs ahold of L's sleeve and begs softly, "Don't leave me."

L's face registers surprise. "I wouldn't even think of it," he promises.

Light shudders as Kira overpowers him for a moment, and he thinks briefly of possession and wonders if Kira really is a demon as he snarls, "_Get away from me, L Lawliet_."

His voice is so venomous that L actually takes a step back, an expression of fear flickering across his face before he banishes it.

"Kira will leave my Light alone," he snarls back, and then Light is back to himself, falling to his knees again and wrapping his arms around himself.

L kneels in front of him and kisses his forehead. "_Please_, Light," he whispers. "_Please _forfeit the Note."

"No!" Light cried loudly, the refusal coming from him and Kira equally. "No, no no no no no no!" He's started a litany of no's, and he can't stop, he won't stop, he can't give it up, L can't make him-

L kisses him again, hard this time, and Light finally falls silent.

"Okay," L agrees. "Okay, you can't give it up. Not now." Light can't give it up, yes, but that doesn't mean that L can't find it and destroy it, no matter how it will hurt Light, L thinks.

Light nods, too afraid to speak.

"We'll just have to find another solution," L continues.

"I can't see any," Light whispers.

"There _is_ one," L insists.

**No,** Kira hisses. **Sooner or later you will get too tired and then I will be in charge. And I will**_** kill him-**_

_"No!" _Light bursts out, startling L for a minute.

Then L recovers and asks, "What is it, Light? What did he say?"

But Light just shakes his head and the rest of him shakes in horror. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "I'm sorry you have to deal with this, I'm sorry I'm _like _this-"

"It's okay," L reassures him, pulling him to his feet and leading him back to the bed. Light sighs, shudders, suddenly feeling exhausted. L looks at him carefully. "You're tired," he says gently, and Light nods, feeling overwhelmed again by Kira's strength and L's kindness, both battling for dominance inside of him.

L positions Light next to him on the bed, and Light gratefully leans back into his arms. For the moment, at least, his protests seem to have quieted Kira, but he can hear him murmuring, barely audible, gaining strength little by little in the darkest recesses of his mind.

"Do you think you'll be able to sleep?" L asks, glancing at the clock. It's well past two in the morning, but Light should rest if he can.

Light shakes his head, shuddering. "Too afraid," he mutters, and L nods in understanding. Light looks over his shoulder. "Please stay," he pleads.

"I will not leave," L swears, tightening his grip for a moment, and Light relaxes back into him.

"Okay," he says softly. And despite his previous avowal, Light finds himself weakening, tiring, and then finally drifting off into sleep.

And L holds him tightly, a plan beginning to form in his mind.

* * *

A/N: This isn't actually where I'd planned on going with this, but . . . I like it, actually. I'm fairly pleased with a chapter for the first time in a long time. At least, it was more effortless to write this chapter than the last several. I know that Light is swapping moods a lot, but I hope I explained it well enough that it seems in character! And if you're wondering why Light has been able to act semi-normal for a few weeks with Kira in his head, remember that he wasn't fighting him till now, so Kira wasn't making it excruciatingly painful till now.

Oh, and I know that there isn't _much _sexiness, but there is a little, and it'll get better eventually, I promise!

So, if you liked it, if you have the time or the inclination, or if you want to save baby goats and other infantile farm animals from a horrible, bloody fate, please review!


	23. Truce

Part 23 – Truce

Published 01.05.13

Long-ass A/N at the end of this re: my disappearance. But first, I present to you, the next chapter of Silence:

* * *

It is quiet when Light wakes up, and for a brief, merciful moment, he can't remember why he's so surprised that it should be quiet.

Then he remembers, and he groans quietly.

_I can't do this. I cannot keep doing this._

He sits up a bit and cranes his head over his shoulder. L must have fallen asleep holding him, because he's still in jeans and a t-shirt, his arm draped loosely around Light and his face peaceful.

As carefully as he can, Light extricates himself from L's arms and sits up fully, rubbing a hand over his face.

He's . . . tired. He is exhausted, he is aching, he is irritable and a little shaky and a little sick. But he is also still here. And he feels . . . _sane._

The irony is not lost on him, and he smiles, bitterly, as he runs a hand through his hair; grimacing, he realizes he'd fallen asleep in a cold sweat and feels grimy because of it.

Quietly, he eases himself off the bed and crosses the hallway into the bathroom. He isn't completely sure why he's going to such lengths to be sneaky—it isn't as though L didn't know what was going on, it isn't as though he was planning on doing anything deviant—except that he wants to avoid the awkwardness and discomfort of L waking up and looking at him with omniscient eyes while Kira goes on the defensive.

The thing is . . . he is _okay _when he's on his own. That's what L doesn't—can't—understand. When he isn't talking to Matt or L or even Ryuuk, when he isn't planning or thinking, when he's just . . . there, he is okay.

It isn't as though Kira torments him nonsensically. And it isn't as though . . . well, he _is _Kira. Sort of. Light isn't totally sure how this is supposed to work.

He bends over to test the water temperature and then grabs a towel from the cupboard, strips, and gets in the shower.

He lets the hot water cascade over his head and shoulders, not forgetting to be so glad that he isn't stuck in Chicago or Near's fortress or Japan or anywhere that's cold and unfriendly and frightening. He's here, at L's home in Wherever, England, where his freedom is challenged, but not much else.

It's too bad that autonomy has always been one of the most valuable commodities in Light Yagami's life.

And what would L's demands be, now that his suspicions had been confirmed? Would he hold Light's freedom hostage further until he had the Death Note? (Light's lips pull back into a silent snarl at that, for one moment completely agreeing with Kira.) Would he search for the Note himself, to destroy it? Or keep Light under constant supervision? Light has a brief image of himself and L attached by those god-forsaken handcuffs again and laughs, quietly. That would be something, to have L forcibly within 4 feet of himself at all times again.

And what are Light's demands, exactly? Or Kira's? As Light rinses shampoo from his hair, he wonders . . . he won't give up the Death Note—it's his consolation prize at the end of his nightmare with B (prize because he'd been searching for it, consolation because it's a nightmare all by itself). But he doesn't know what he plans on doing with it.

_I don't actually want to kill anyone, _he thinks.

**You don't **_**not**_** want to kill anyone**, Kira reminds him.

Ah, there he is. It's been awfully quiet, the past twenty minutes. Light doesn't bother responding to that; he has no reason to kill criminals, seeing as how he is one, and he doesn't fancy falling back into self-delusion and crushing guilt. And he doesn't have anyone else to kill, either. And, really, that's all the Death Note's good for.

**How about your memories? **

All right, so it is good for one other thing. He frowns. _Just how much of me are you? _he wonders at Kira.

**All of you.**

_That's not true. _Light thinks back to the night before, memories flashing behind his closed eyes. They'd fought—he and Kira—bitterly, so they couldn't be exactly the same. But it also isn't as though Kira is all the bad things and Light's all the good things in his personality; or that Kira is a completely separate personality. It's more . . .

**That I'm all of the dark things you wouldn't—or couldn't—think, or do? **

_Maybe. What does that make me?_

**Weak.**

_. . . What do you want?_

**What do you want?**

_I want . . . I want to stop being afraid, and to stop being hurt, and to stop being overwhelmed by memories. _

**Sounds like you want freedom. I can give you that. **

_You'd give me guilt, which is not the same. Besides, if I left here, where would I go? _

**I'm not suggesting you leave here, although that's certainly an option. I suggesting gaining the upper hand over L. Even you can't say that's not fair, seeing as he's had it for about a decade. **

_I don't _want _to be in charge of L. _

**And I think that's a contemptible lie. **

Light's quiet, and then jumps when he sees something move out of the corner of his eye.

It's L, of course, leaning on the bathroom counter and watching him through the glass of the shower cubicle. He has a look on his face that Light can't quite define. He doesn't seem angry or afraid or anxious, or . . .

Dear god, has Light been talking out loud? Light rakes through his memories frantically, pulling his gaze back to the front of the shower as he turns off the water. He grabs his towel, shoulders relaxing as he finally determines that he hasn't spoken anything aloud.

He passes the towel over his body and hair before wrapping it around his waist and stepping out the shower.

"Morning," he says to L. He walks over to the sink beside L and reaches for his toothbrush.

L is quiet. Light tries again. "How'd you sleep?"

"Poorly."

"Oh."

"You?"

Light's brushing his teeth at this point, so he just shrugs. "Okay," he ways, once he can speak again.

L doesn't say anything else and Light, feeling something strange between the two of them, doesn't either. He turns and leans back against the counter as well, and watches L.

L's looking straight ahead, teeth idly nipping at his thumbnail, which is quite short. Light sees that the dark circles under his eyes, which had disappeared over the past few years, are back in full force. He is perhaps even thinner than before, which sparks a twinge of worry and guilt in Light.

Kira is silent, which also worries Light a bit, especially when there is still no reaction from him when Light reaches out and places a tentative hand on L's shoulder, fingers curling slightly around the base of his neck.

"What is it?" Light asks, when there is still no reaction from L.

Finally, L turns to look at him. "I was . . . worried," he says. "When I woke up and you weren't there."

"Oh," Light says, understanding. L doesn't know how long ago Light left him, and what he's done in that time. "Sorry," he adds. "I barely woke up myself."

L looks like he isn't sure if he believes him or not.

"Really," Light says, a little irritated. He laughs humorlessly and drops his hand from L's shoulder. "You can check your cameras if you really think I'd lie about something that trivial, L," he says acidly, pushing off the counter and starting to walk out of the room.

L grabs his hand and pulls him back, and suddenly Light is leaning back against the countertop again, L in front of him now; and just as suddenly, Light realizes what the strangeness of L's expression is.

L _wants _him. Bad, if his expression is any indication.

Light supposes that L has just watched him shower—something he's been shy about in the past—and that he _is _still wearing nothing but a towel.

Swallowing a grin that tries to force its way onto his lips, Light reaches up one of his hands and curls it around the back of L's neck again. His fingers play with the hair that hangs there, and he sees L swallow.

"Something wrong?" Light asks, and although he doesn't meant to sound so smug, it certainly comes out that way.

L's eyes, which have rapidly been losing focus as Light's other hand slides under his shirt to wrap around his waist, sharpen again and meet Light's.

"You're acting awfully impudent for someone who's not wearing any clothes," L says, leaning in to grip the counter behind Light.

Light moves closer, brushing his lips along L's jawline. "You're acting awfully impersonal for someone who's hoping to get some," he murmurs in L's ear. He presses his lips to the patch of skin just under his ear and moves down L's throat.

L's hands are trembling now, barely noticeable to Light as he uses the arm wrapped around L's waist to bring him closer. God, this feels good—why hasn't he done this before? He supposes he's just been . . . afraid, before.

Well, fuck that.

As Light presses barely-there kisses to the hollow of his throat and collarbone, he hears L mutter something above him, but quietly enough that he doesn't quite catch it. He lifts his head and meets L's eyes. "Hmm?" he prompts.

"This is still cheating," L repeats, louder this time.

Light thinks about that for a moment; then, with a sly smile, he begins to withdraw the arm from around L's waist. "Well, if that's how you feel," he says, pressing indifference into his tone.

He doesn't get far; L sinks his fingers into his damp hair and pulls him forward for a bruising kiss.

Light wants to smile, he wants to grin at this victory, but L presses up against him, turning them and pushing his back against the wall, and suddenly it's so much hotter than before and all he manages to do is groan softly. Light feels like it's almost too much, L's hands and mouth on him and their hips pressed together, and at the same time, it's not enough, not nearly enough. His hand moves up, threading into L's hair and turning his head slightly to get a better angle, and L makes a soft, pleased sound deep in his throat when Light's tongue flicks at his open mouth.

Light reaches between them with his other hand, and palms the front of L's jeans; L groans at that and his hips jerk forward slightly as Light continues to move his hand, gently pressing, knowing it can't be nearly enough to satisfy him.

"Light," L breathes, and there's a plea in his voice, a question or a concern; something Light is glad to answer in the affirmative.

"Bed," Light says, pressing harder.

L follows him without protest, pausing only to draw him in again for another hot, hard kiss, and Light almost just gives up on the bed entirely, but he manages to get the two of them into their room and falls back on the bed.

With L on top of him, between his legs, kissing him and reaching underneath the towel, Light can hardly think. He lifts his hips to allow the towel to be dragged from underneath him and then, thinking hazily, _He has on way more clothes than I do and that's just not fair, _Light works at the zipper on L's jeans.

L is starting to make him forget everything, burning away his worrying and his planning and everything until there is only one thing left bothering him, one of the things that's _been _bothering him for weeks now. He needs the memory of B - of B hurting him, touching him, fucking him - exorcised.

He reaches up tugs L down until his lips are pressed to his ear. "I want you," he whispers, hardly able to get the words out as L starts to stroke him.

"You have me," L says.

"No, not just – nngh – not just like this," Light manages to say. "Inside me, L." He reaches down, slips his fingers under the waistband of L's boxers and L inhales sharply as he brushes his fingers softly over his arousal.

"Are you – sure?" L asks, and Light doesn't know if he's more irritated or touched at L's concern.

"Yes," Light says, although it comes out as a groan since L takes that moment to grind their hips together again. "Oh god, do that again."

L complies—it hardly seems that he needs any instruction on the matter—and Light closes his eyes, panting.

"I don't have any . . . anything," L says, and it takes Light a second to get it, since all the blood that's supposed to be up in his brain has long since vacated the premises.

"Lotion," he manages, when he does understand.

L's never done this before, and Light barely manages to give instructions, sometimes just managing to gasp and nod in approval; it isn't very long at all until L is inside of him, moving so slowly, so hesitantly that Light thinks he would kill him if he didn't need this so bad.

"Fuck, L, move," Light groans, shifting his hips in encouragement.

L seems to be at a loss for words for a long moment, eyes glazed and breaths coming fast and shallow, then he swallows and leans down to kiss Light. "I don't want . . . to hurt you," he breathes.

"I'm – ahh – going to hurt you, if you don't start moving."

L does, but tentatively, still not enough, still so much gentler than Light is used to; he wants L to fill him, choke him with this pleasure, needs him to blind him with it, make him feel like he's burning up. He wants to _forget_, damn it, and L's being so gentle and kind that he can't stand it.

Light reaches up and tugs L down for a kiss, keeping them both from breathing for a few long seconds. "More, L," he says, nipping at his ear. "_Please_."

Light doesn't know if it's the _please _or the fact that he jerks his hips up so L slides fully inside him, but L suddenly seems to stop thinking and just _moves_. Light focuses on that movement; his world narrows down to sensation and sound as he closes his eyes and digs his fingers into L's back, panting and gasping for air that's too thin, too spare to keep up with this heady feeling.

And just when it seems like he can't feel anything else, L reaches down and runs his fingers first over his thighs and abs and then in between, stroking him harder than before, in time with his thrusts. Light has about 5 seconds to be impressed with L's powers of concentration before L fills him again, completely, and he comes, breath catching and his head falling back as he goes. L does too, moments later, and they're caught up in the sensation together, moving feverishly, riding out orgasm until they're both finally spent.

* * *

Light doesn't exactly fall asleep after—it's more that he's in a bit of a daze, laying next to L, their legs tangled together, eyes on the ceiling as he runs his fingers distractedly down L's back.

After a few minutes of that, their breathing goes back to normal, and L seems to come back to himself. He turns his head and presses warm lips to Light's neck—skin damp from the shower before, now damp from sweat.

Light lets his eyes slip shut as he languidly turns his head to the side, exposing more of his throat to L. He sighs contentedly as L lazily trails his lips down to the juncture of his neck and shoulder and begins to suck at the skin there, drawing it into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth, sucking until Light is sure there's going to be an impressive bruise. The thought makes him grin.

After a while, L seems to lose interest in that activity, and he props himself up a little, running curious fingers down Light's torso. Light shivers when his nails catch on the scarred skin there, and when that happens, L glosses a sympathetic palm over the area.

Light is so content, so warm and satisfied, that when Kira's voice echoes in his mind, it's like plunging headfirst into ice-cold water.

**Seems like you enjoyed yourself. **He sounds so goddamn smug that Light nearly snarls.

_Shut up._

**No. I've been quiet long enough. **

Although Light is focused on this sort-of-conversation, Light does notice when L pulls back and sits up, watching him closely. Damn him and his discerning gaze.

"What?" Light asks, doing his best to keep his voice level and soft. **He's noticed you talking to yourself, of course.**

_So stop. Talking. _

"What's he saying?" L asked, and although his voice holds nothing but quiet curiosity, Light still flinches a little and sits up, running fingers through his hair. He notices the trembling in his fingers is back and he clenches his hands to stop it.

Finally, he sighs and looks over at L. "Nothing of importance," he says.

L raises his thumb and begins to worry it with his teeth. He's thinking, considering Light like he's a specimen and Light really is not in the mood for this right now.

Light presses his palms into his closed eyes and tries to force Kira from his mind. "For god's sake, L," he mutters. As Kira starts to laugh, he snaps, _Shut. Up. I will talk to you later but right now I have absolutely no patience._

**Is that supposed to intimidate me? **

_It's supposed to deter you until a later time._

**I am not accustomed to waiting on anyone else's pleasure, Light. **

_Get accustomed. _

"What does he want?" L asks, and for a brief flash, Light is angry at L, wants to hurt him, but just as quickly recognizes Kira's influence and shakes his head to dispel the feeling.

**Freedom.**

"Please just . . . don't," Light says tiredly. L considers him for a moment more, then stands and begins getting dressed. Light sighs. "L, what's wrong?" he asks.

L doesn't say anything for a moment. He's half dressed, with his jeans pulled on and his shirt in his hands; a look Light finds quite appealing.

"This . . . this may not have been the right time to do this," L begins, and Light's eyes narrow.

"This was exactly the right time to do this," Light snaps back. "If you mean to wait until you can be certain of my intentions, you'll likely be waiting a long time."

L raises his eyebrows and looks a little cagey.

"I just mean," Light continues, "that I'm happy to tell you, in excruciating detail, why this was an excellent idea, but I don't know that you'll believe a word I say."

L's lips twist into a half smile. "_Can _I believe what you say?" he asks.

Frustrated, feeling exposed, Light stands and pulls on his own boxers, and then walks around the bed and approaches L. "L, stop _thinking_, stop complicating everything, you're driving me crazy."

L pulls back from him (not that they were very close to begin with) and Light rolls his eyes, well and truly irritated now. "Why are you doing this?" L asks. "What could you possibly hope to gain?"

And Light can't even respond to that properly; he just makes a wordless sound of supreme frustration and paces away from L. After a few more moments of pacing, he feels calm enough to respond, and he turns suddenly to face L. "What could I _gain _from this?" he asks, folding his arms across his scarred chest. "Is it so impossible to believe that I'm did this because I _wanted _to?"

L shoves his hands in his pockets and studies the floor. He is silent.

Light takes a deep breath and approaches L, slowly this time. "L, I have wanted to do this for an _obscene _amount of time."

"Why didn't you?" L asks.

Damn it, L's going to make him say it.

"I . . . couldn't," Light forces out, looking down and away. "I felt like I shouldn't," Light manages to add, feeling so much more exposed than he did just a few moments ago. "I didn't deserve it."

L's eyes are concerned and guarded and it really is just too much for Light right now.

"Damn it, L, I'm not doing this to hurt you!" Light snaps. "I have done dozens—hundreds—of things with the intention of hurting you, and you know about _all of those things_, but this is not one of them."

"How can I be sure?" L asks, shifting from foot to foot.

Light laughs, bitterly. "And when has certainty _ever _factored into our relationship? Neither of us can be sure of anything when it comes to the other, can we? You can't be sure why I'm doing this—or if it's even me doing it, if it's Kira trying to manipulate you for God-knows-what reason; and I can't be sure why you'd _let _me do this, especially when you obviously regret it. Was it out of desperation, manipulation, pity, what?"

L looks startled at his sudden outburst and bites at his nail again. "I . . . I don't pity you, Light," he finally says.

"Well, that's news to me," Light snaps, he and Kira in agreement for once. "Why else—besides guilt—would you do all this? Why else would you follow me in what turned out to be more or less a full circle around the earth, trying to get me back from a serial killer, who I most likely had more in common with than I do you?"

L blinks, and looks hurt, but Light isn't finished yet. Every fear, every insecurity, every inconsistency is coming out of him, Kira pushing him further into this black mood as L watches in apprehension.

"You think you know me, L, you _say _you love me, but how can you when you don't seem to understand anything I _do_? When you think that I'd use sex as a tool to manipulate you, or that I'm so much weaker than Kira that he'd be able to overwhelm me completely, to the point that you wouldn't know who you were dealing with?"

"I do love you, Light," L says softly, trying to cut through Light's red tirade, but Light just laughs.

"You love me, sure," Light says bitterly, "you just don't _trust _me."

"And when have you given me a reason to trust you?" L is speaking quietly, calm in the face of Light's anger, and the simple words make Light flinch and bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping back. "You _did_ leave with B, you _did _have the intention of killing Crowley and recovering the Death Note, you _do _feel bitter towards me and the way I've kept you imprisoned here, you _murdered _thousands of people, Light, you tried to keep the Death Note and Kira's reemergence from me, and you _slept _with B, just the same as you just had sex with me, and God knows if it meant anything more to you than when you were with him!"

By the time L is finished, he is nearly shouting, and Light finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, out of breath and his chest tight and angry and desperate from what L has been saying.

It is so, so quiet in the room after that. They just stare at each other, and for once, no one looks away in guilt or anger or fear.

Kira is laughing softly in the back of Light's mind, and he flinches and presses cool fingers to his warm temple in an effort to prevent the headache he can feel coming from a mile away. "You . . . you mean something to me, L," he says, quietly. L's expression does not waver. "B didn't mean _anything_."

"You would not have left if he didn't," L says coldly.

"Fine," Light snarls. He gets to his feet again. "B meant _freedom, _L, he meant _escape_, he meant a chance for me to stop feeling desperate and confused and angry, and I was _wrong_ to leave, I was _wrong _to give myself to him." Light shuts his mouth with a snap, suddenly, as Kira's presence starts to overwhelm him in his anger, and he struggles for a moment until he's back in control. L watches him, warily and sadly, and Light turns away, angrier than ever.

"You don't know," Light says softly, venomously. "You don't know what it's like to wake up and not understand where you are or how you got there. You don't know what's it like to not know, not be able to understand your own mind or what's happening to you. You don't know what's it's like to relive the worst moments of your life over and over until you are insane and humiliated."

"You don't have a corner on suffering, Light," L snaps, cutting cleanly through Light's anger. "I don't pretend to understand what you have been made to suffer, but that doesn't mean that I am immune to pain and loss and humiliation myself. It doesn't mean that I haven't lost things as well."

"If you're talking about your pride, then join the club-"

"I'm _talking _about my _name_, Light! I'm talking about my profession! You don't know—you never bothered to ask how I got you away from Near, or how I found you, or what I had to do to ensure your safety and B's capture!"

"What are you-"

"Near demanded that I give up my title as 'L'. He would not release you to my care otherwise, and I had nothing to bargain with besides my name," L says, and Light can hear real pain behind his words.

"How can he take away your name?" Light asks, bewildered and a little afraid.

"I had to declare the detective 'L' dead when he returned you to me. I drafted the email and sent it out to the major detective and police agencies before he even let me see you."

Another long pause, and this time L doesn't look at Light, can't look at him. "I . . . I helped B escape from a Japanese prison cell so I could follow his trail to find you. I risked all of those officers' lives, I dragged Matt and Mello and Wammy into all this, I overlooked Amane's death and the fire at the hotel in Tokyo—which killed about a dozen people, by the way—and the murder of a Japanese officer so I could focus on finding you. I-" and here L's voice finally falters- "I _killed _someone, Light, I killed Crowley, wrote his name in the Death Note when I realized that B must be leading you to him, when I understood that was why B had kept you alive, because he had promised your death to someone else."

At this point, L comes and sits down on the bed next to Light, who is looking at him like he is seeing him for the first time. **He is lying**- Kira starts, but _Shut the fuck up_, Light says, with such vehemence that it actually happens.

"I buried B," L continues. "I buried him and didn't I didn't look back, didn't ask you what had happened, let you have your space, waited for you to come to me when you needed me. I realized that Kira must be back and I didn't look for the Death Note, didn't demand that you hand it over to me, didn't demand that you give it up and lose your memories and his influence. I didn't burn the house down to destroy the Death Note inside. And all of those things occurred to me, Light, don't think that they didn't.

"But I waited—foolishly, perhaps—for you to trust _me_, to confide in me, and now you have the gall to say that _I _don't trust _you_? You have cut yourself off from me, and not just recently—in the past several years, you have become more distant, you have not bothered to confide in me although I have done everything I can to make you comfortable, to assuage your guilt and ease your conscience. It is you who doesn't trust me, Light, and even though there is nothing I want more in this world than your trust, I _still don't have it_."

Finally, Light thinks that he might understand. He sits on the bed, mouth slightly open, and takes a deep breath. He wants to apologize, but he knows L doesn't want his apology. He wants to kiss him, but he knows that L doesn't want his comfort. And after a long moment, he can't take it anymore and stands up and leaves.

L watches him go, his stomach twisted into anxious, horrible knots. His breath is coming fast and short, and he feels like he cannot get enough air. So this is what comes of finally telling the truth? Physical pain and Light running away? This is what he gets for being honest, for finally losing his temper and just saying everything that's been building inside of him for days and weeks and months and years? He can't even groan, can't even sob, or cry, he just leans over and presses his forehead onto his knees and closes his horribly dry eyes against the awful feeling of despair that he thinks might not ever go away.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that—how long he is bent over with his thoughts swirling as he thinks of everything and nothing with his heart pounding and his head aching—but however long it is, it ends when he hears Light's soft footsteps on their bedroom's carpet once more.

He knows it is Light; knows him so well by now he could tell just by hearing him breathe, just by his step, or his sighs. And God, he wants to keep him. But if Light doesn't trust him, if he still doesn't, after all this time and all he's done . . . he never will. And L might as well just let him go.

Light stops just a few steps away from him and waits, but L is in no mood to speak to him now, so after a few more moments, Light comes up to him and kneels on the bed next to him, touches his shoulder.

L forces himself to raise his head, even though it feels like it weighs at least 50 pounds, forces himself to look into Light's face, into his beautiful eyes. He feels like he's drowning, and wonders if Light feels like this all the time.

He feels so awful it takes him a moment to realize that Light is trying to say something, to hand him something, and without thinking, he lifts his hand to take it; but after a moment, and with a shock, he looks down and sees that he is holding a slim black notebook.

* * *

A/N: Oh, uh, hey guys.

I know, I know, it's been forever. And I've basically been totally silent. But please know that although I haven't often had access to a computer, I have read everyone's reviews and PM's and everything, and it has really inspired me to keep going.

I appreciate everyone's patience and concern. I don't really want to go into much detail, but I will say that I've been in and out of the hospital for the last year or so. I had a bit of a breakdown last November and I had to leave school and start on some serious medication. I don't know if anyone's ever been on a lot of medicine for mental illness, but it completely dulls any creativity I have. If anyone has any questions or anything, I'd be happy to answer them in a PM. I'm not ashamed or anything, just . . . it's kinda private, I guess.

Anyway, this story is just about wrapped up (hooray!) and L and Light finally got together (HOORAY!). I have finally been reunited with my faithful laptop, and I'll be starting school again soon; I am currently writing the next chapter of Disorder, and I'm working on Ceteris Paribus. I have a few chapters of that written, but not the very next one, so I need to work on that.

Thank you, thank you to anyone who's still reading. I am really grateful to have people who care about my writing. If you'd like, I'd love to hear from you. I can't promise anything, because Lord knows how I'll be feeling in the next couple of days, but I will try to respond to reviews, and I'll definitely respond to PMs.

Thanks!

bahari


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